


Ripper Jane

by Diary



Series: Victorian Edwardian Westeros Verse [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Anachronistic, Awkwardness, Bechdel Test Pass, Blood Donation, Canon Disabled Character, Catholic Character, Catholic Jon Snow, Character Death, Disturbing Themes, Established Jon Snow/Ygritte, Established Relationship, Family, Friendship/Love, Gentleman Samwell Tarly, Implied Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inspired by Real Events, Late Night Conversations, Minor Violence, Multi, Murder Mystery, POV Multiple, Protestant Character, Pseudo-History, Romance, Sufferage, Sufferagettes, Women Being Awesome, Ygritte is Tormund Giantsbane's Daughter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-06 22:02:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8771011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diary/pseuds/Diary
Summary: AU. Prostitutes are being brutally murdered, and urchin Gilly has a theory few are willing to listen to. Complete.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Game of Thrones.

“Tarly!”

Wincing, Samwell Tarly reluctantly sets his journal aside and trudges up the basement stairs. “Captain?”

Inspector Jeor Mormont gives him a disgusted look. “This- woman insists she has pertinent information about the prozzie slayer case. Take her down to your office and bloody hear her out so she’ll stop coming around.”

With this, he storms off.

Looking at the woman, Sam feels a sense of sympathy. She’s waif thin with raggedy clothes.

Doing a clumsy curtsy, she insists, “I can be of help.”

“Right,” he says. “Um, why don’t we go to the canteen? What’s your name, miss?”

She looks at him with an expression of suspicion. “The captain said your office.”

“Well, yes, but downstairs where I just came from? It leads to the basement, which is my office, and there’s no one else down there."

“Canteen would be better,” she agrees. “I’m Gilly. Just Gilly, nothing else.”

Bowing his head, he starts to lead the way. “I’m Constable Sam Tarly. Coffee or tea?”

“Neither,” she answers. “I’m not here for charity.”

“I didn’t- alright,” he helplessly agrees.

They sit down in the canteen. “What information do you have, Miss Gilly?”

“You’re looking for a man, but that’s wrong,” she informs him.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

“The one killing prozzies is a woman. She might be a midwife or nurse.”

He tries not to gape. “Well, that’s- certainly an interesting theory.”

“It’s not a theory,” she snaps. “The first time, it could have been a man, it wasn’t, but it could have been. But once it happened, those women, prozzies, they would have worked out plenty of ways to prevent another man from doing such a thing. Not that they didn’t already have a bunch of ways, already. But even if a bloody woman or one carrying a knife came near, they aren’t gonna be scared for ‘emselves. Might be concerned for her, but it also could be, ‘Oh, don’t worry, dearie, I just delivered a baby or helped with surgery.’ And she’ll get close and stay long enough to- I’m not sure how she manages to hurt them. Maybe she’s strong, or maybe she has medicine.”

She looks expectantly at him.

Thinking about it, he wonders if she could possibly be right. The idea a woman could be so violent is hard to swallow, but Jon’s brought in murderesses and women who’ve done horrible things to children before. He knows most, if not all, of the station would dismiss the idea because of the clear surgical skill the killer has shown, but he’s read about women doctors before, and a midwife or nurse might well have learned and developed such skills.

“Miss Gilly, this truly is an interesting thought, but unless it’s proven, it _is_ just a theory. And I wish I could say that we’d look into it, but the truth is, no one around here is going to listen. And I’m not really much of a copper. I do the station’s budget, I dictate statements, and I make sure the appropriate paperwork is always filed and sorted. The rest of the time, I stay in the basement and work on reorganising the rest of the filing. You wouldn’t believe how lackadasiy it’s been since this station started.”   

Letting out a breath, she nods. “Well, thank you for listening. I’m still going to try to get others to listen, though, but I won’t come around here anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Standing up, she replies, “Don’t be. You listened, and you were honest.”

She leaves.

…

When Detective Jon Snow comes down to the basement to have tea with him, Sam tells him about the theory.

“Well, I’ve learned the hard way to never dismiss women being capable of the worst things out of hand, but even the most strident suffragettes would admit that motives are often different when it comes to men and women. Usually, if a woman is angry enough over her man stepping out, she’ll poison or stab him. Maybe occasionally she’ll go after the other woman too or instead. But a woman managing to find out, track down, and go after every prozzie her husband was with or just going after all of ‘em because he made a habit of seeing one or more of them? It’s a stretch.”

Sam nods. “I didn’t ask if she- Miss Gilly was one. Do you think I should have? It doesn’t matter to me, well, I mean- but if she is, and she puts herself in danger because we didn’t do anything-” He shivers.

“If you want me to talk to her, I will,” Jon says.

“Can you do anything besides that?”

“No.”

“Then, I don’t think she’d have much patience for you, to be honest.”

Jon nods. “I’m worried,” he quietly says. “Obviously, I want justice for the women already fallen and to make sure no others do, but- what if this killer moves on from prozzies to others?”

“You’re worried about Miss Giantsbane,” Sam sympathetically realises.

“She causes more annoyance than most prozzies do,” Jon grouses. “And after she’s started giving interviews to the newspapers and letting them take her photograph-” Sighing, he shakes his head.  

“I’m sorry."

“She’s going to do what she wants or what she thinks best, regardless of what anyone says or thinks,” Jon says. “Much as I often have to deal with the problems this causes, I suppose, in some ways, I can’t help but respect that.”

They clink mugs.

…

Jeor rubs his head. “Mayor Baratheon-”

“Do you have any better ideas, Inspector,” Stannis Baratheon demands. “Four women of the night have been slain in the past three months. It’s gotten to the point I cannot, in good conscience, leave my wife alone at home, even with our servants. A gentlelady should not have to be dragged to late-night meetings, and with her delicate health, trips out of the city are trying.”

“Sir, we’re doing everything we possibly can. Having every prostitute in the city locked up, however- that just isn’t feasible. And even if it was- were, there’d be an outcry. Not to mention, this madman might decide to target a different type of women.”

Stannis glowers. “If you refuse to do this voluntarily, Inspector Mormont, I will call a city council meeting and put the issue to vote.”

Sighing, Jeor steels himself. “Then, that’s what you’ll have to do, Mr Mayor. I’ve always been a big supporter of yours, and I’ve always tried to do right by this city. This isn’t wilful non-compliance. If I’m replaced, he can try to do what you want, but I promise you, he won’t succeed. Not from any interference from me, I stress to add. At best, it’ll simply be too hard to identify, arrest, and find enough space for all the women in the prozzie trade. At worst, everyone from the religious leaders to the suffragettes will complain and cause even greater unrest, and this might make it easier, even, for the madman to target the women.”

Shaking his head, Stannis walks over to the door. “I’m going to make sure my wife is well-settled in the canteen. Then, I’m going to come back, and you’re going to explain in detail exactly what your station is doing, Inspector. You and I are going to see if there is anything else you can possibly be doing.”

“Yes, sir,” Jeor agrees. “Thank you.”

…

Up in the canteen, Sam and Jon turn in their trays, and both stand at attention when Mayor Baratheon walks past.

Passing a table where Mrs Baratheon is carefully cutting up some sewing cloth, Jon yawns.” I need to get home. Hey, though, if this Gilly does come along with any actual evidence that suggests the prozzie slayer is a woman, find me, yeah?”

“I will. Be safe and have a good night, Jon.”

“You, too. Don’t stay in the basement for too long.”

“I won’t.”

…

Clutching her rosary, Gilly sticks close to allies.

She pauses when she sees a woman with fiery red hair walking down a lit street with a small crossbow in one hand and a hunting knife in the other.

Swallowing and shivering, Gilly murmurs a prayer and starts walking towards the woman.

Spinning around, the woman lowers her knife and changes the way she’s holding the crossbow. “Hello,” she says. “Not exactly a safe time to be out, is it? That’s why I have these. Do you want me to walk you somewhere?”

After trying several times, Gilly manages, “The prozzie slayer is a woman. No one will listen, but it’s true.”

The woman raises an eyebrow. “Well, this will be new, at any rate. Is it you?”

Gilly shakes her head.

Dropping the knife, the woman kicks it over to Gilly. Withdrawing the arrows, she does the same with them but says of the crossbow, “I’m holding onto this. Want to find a bench and explain?”

Slipping her rosary into her pocket, Gilly carefully picks up the knife and arrows. Spotting a bench, she jerks her head towards it. “Together.”

They walk side-by-side but apart to the bench and take opposite sides.

“I’m Ygritte Giantsbane. What’s your name?”

“Gilly.”

“Tell me why you think it’s a woman.”

Gilly does, and Ygritte attentively listens.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: There's a theory Jack the Ripper was really a woman, possibly a midwife. I don't know if I truly believe it or not, but I thought it'd be interesting to explore the idea of a violent female serial killer in a time when women had little in the way of legal rights and were often viewed by society at large as less intelligent and competent. As for the fic's setting, it's the country Westeros in a combination of Victorian and Edwardian times with influences from Murdoch Mysteries and whatever else I decide to add mixed in.


	2. Chapter 2

“I live in a Maggie house,” Gilly says. At her Ygritte's look, Gilly quickly adds, “This one is good. I know some of them- but this one lets women keep their babies, if they want, and doesn’t lock anyone up. Some of us are former prozzies, and prozzies ain’t allowed to stay, but sometimes, they’ll come for a meal. The sisters usually allow it.”

“What do they think of your theory?”

Gilly shakes her head. “None of ‘em believe it, either. But I-” She hesitates. “I was once one.”

Ygritte simply nods. “I don’t have much use for men who visit them, but in this world, often women have to do whatever they have to do.”

Letting out a sigh, Gilly smiles gratefully at her. “Most of prozzies have a good sense about men. If they don’t, they develop it quick. Four women who don’t, that could happen, but I doubt it. It’s different with women. So many Maggie houses are so horrible because people, ‘specially other women, refuse to believe.”

“But,” she continues, “it’s not just this that makes me think it. The second victim, it happened near a church I make deliveries to. One of the priests is a mean old man who walks around at night, chasing off prozzies with his cane. He’s old, like I said, and his memory can’t be trusted, but I’ve asked him about that night, anyway. He swears there weren’t no men ‘bout and that, at one point, he saw a kind, Christian woman helping a prozzie.”

“Did you tell the police this part?”

“No,” Gilly answers. “Or well, I tried. After the first one happened, I felt down to my bones it was a woman responsible, but I thought it was just that one she’d been wronged by. When the second happened, I knew that this was a mad woman, out to hurt ‘em all, and I tried and tried to get the police to listen. Went to different stations, and it never worked.”

“Finally, I found someone to listen, and he thought it was interesting, but he flat-out said no one would investigate. So, the only thing left to do is what you’re doing: Try to see if I can find her, or at least, keep other prozzies safe.”

“What was the bobby’s name who listened to you?”

“Constable Samwell Tarly. He works at-”

Jumping up, Ygritte grabs Gilly’s hand.

The knife Gilly was loosely holding clatters to the ground.

Quickly scooping it up without letting go of the hand, Ygritte declares, “We’re going to Wallington Station. I don’t know Tarly very well, but Jon Snow- I can make him listen. You need to tell him about this priest.”

Grabbing the arrows, Gilly lets herself be led. “Who’s Jon Snow?”

“A detective. Me and him- well, we’ve had some jolly good times. I’m a suffragette, and there’s been more than once he’s arrested me and I’ve got him in trouble with the inspector, but aside from all this, we do make it a habit of, at least, listening to one another.”

“Morning’s still-”

“Jon comes in at seven. We’ll wait."

“But the Maggie house-” Gilly protests.

“Do they have a telegraph machine?”

“They used to. I don’t know if they still do. They’ve been using a telephone for several years.”

“Even better,” Ygritte says. “The station has one, too. You can call.”

“Could- could you please do it? The sisters call me silly, and everyone else seems safe, but I’ve always been scared it’d steal my voice.”

Ygritte’s mouth twitches, but all she says is, “Of course.”

…

Jon finds Constable Pypar waiting for him at the sign-in area when he arrives. “Hey, Pyp,” he greets.

“Miss Giantsbane and an urchin are in the canteen," Pyp informs him. "She insisted on using the telephone. I’ve kept the inspector away so far, but I’d get them away, quick.”

Sighing, Jon says, “Thank you, Pyp.”

Going to the canteen, he finds Ygritte bullying a raggedy young woman into eating some egg toast. Seeing him, she gives a sharp smile. “Detective Snow, this is Gilly. She talked to Tarly yesterday, but it turns out, she didn’t tell him everything important.”

Swallowing, Gilly bobs her head.

…

Down in the basement, Ygritte gets Gilly settled at one of the tables with her egg toast and cup of tea, and Jon does the same with Sam and Sam’s bowl of porridge and cup of coffee.

Standing against the wall, Ygritte orders Gilly, “Tell them what you told me.”

When Gilly’s done, Jon groans and rubs his temples. “I’ll talk to the priest when I get off-duty, but that’s probably the best I’ll be able to do. Inspector Mormont is convinced Tyrion Lannister might-”

Ygritte snorts. “The hunchbacked dwarf? Oh, yeah, of course. He’s perverted and ain’t near as enlightened as he’d like to believe, but he does treat prozzies better than most men. Sees them as human and doesn’t have them do anything they find truly bad. Only reason he’s a suspect is because of his looks.”

“I owe a sort of debt to Mister Lannister, but more than just his looks, he once attended medical school and got decent enough grades. The fact his fondness for practically living in whorehouses is no secret doesn’t exactly help.”

“It should,” Ygritte says. “Where’s he gonna live if they start to shut down?”

“You seem awfully keen to defend him,” Jon suspiciously notes. “Since when do you defend men who see prozzies?”

“Jealous, are ya? You don’t need to be. Worried, maybe, though. He’s done a lot to help us suffragettes, and because of that, we might soon have the vote and other things. We all know how much you don’t want that.”

“You know nothing,” Jon snaps.

“Ahem,” Sam makes a soft noise. “Why don’t we focus on what Miss Gilly’s told us? Miss Gilly, is there absolutely any other information you can give us?”

“No,” Gilly answers.

“I’ll talk to the priest after I get off duty,” Jon repeats.

“What about finger marks,” Ygritte asks. “Can ya tell if the difference between women and men’s?”

Giving her a weary look, Jon answers, “Sometimes. But- we didn’t take finger marks at the crime scenes.”

“Why the hell not?" Advancing on him, when his back hits the wall, she pokes him repeatedly. “You talk your ear off about how revolutionary-”

“It’s not as if it might do much good with people having the right to refuse to have their markings took,” he pointedly replies.

“Funny how you only really want people like me to have that. It’s your way to-”

“You threw that brick, I know you did!”

“Yeah, well, that brick needed to be thrown. Good on whoever did it!”

“Which was you.”

“Right!” Sam says. “Miss Gilly, would you like me to walk you upstairs?”

“Yes, please." Jumping up, Gilly grabs her tea and plate. “Thank you, Miss Giantsbane, Detective Snow.”

…

Upstairs, Gilly hesitantly asks, “What are finger marks?”

“Oh, um-” Stopping, Sam holds up his left hand and points with his right hand. “You see these ridges on the on top?”

Studying them, Gilly frowns and brings her own fingers up to study. “I never really noticed them.”

“Well, when you touch something, they leave invisible marks. But with certain powders and inks, you can make them visible.”

“Are- are you having a laugh?”

“No,” Sam quickly says. “Miss Gilly, I know it sounds fantastical, but I promise, it’s true.” He pauses. “In fact, if you want to stay for a bit, I can show you.”

A bit shyly, Gilly says, “I’d like that.”

“This way.”

Once Sam gets the ink tray and a clean finger marking sheet, he takes her to the canteen. “Now, this won’t hurt,” he promises. “I’ll show you.”

Pressing his left fingers into the ink, he transfers them to the boxes on the sheet. “See? Canada, Europe, the States, and several other countries have been using this method for several years. We didn’t start until about five years ago, and most stations still don’t. Now, watch this.” He finishes the last of his coffee, turns the mug sideways, and presses it down into the ink. Picking it up, he shows it to her.

“Marks,” she murmurs.

“Yes. Now, I’m not good at it, but if Pyp or our coroner looked at the prints on this and the ones on the sheet, they’d be able to tell almost right away that they matched. You see, no one has completely matching finger marks. Some peoples are more similar than others, but even identical twins have some differences in theirs.”

“Can you do mine?”

“If you want, yes,” Sam answers.

Her hand hovers above the ink. “How-?”

“I’ll help you.” Using his right hand, he positions her fingers and guides her by the wrist. “Now, just press gently. Good, now over to the paper. Other hand, now. Don’t worry, the ink washes off with soap and water. There. Done.”

Picking up the page, Gilly studies the marks. “Do babies have these marks, too?”

“Yes. As far as I know, absolutely everyone with fingers has them.”

“Are you the reason this station started?”

Giving her a startled look, he answers, “Well, in a way. I love to read, so, I’ve known about finger marks for some time. About a year ago, Jon had a case involving indenticial twins. He couldn’t figure out beyond doubt which had committed a crime. I suggested this, and Constable Grenn knew a Dr Qyburn, who’d later become our coroner, and brought him in to help. Dr Qyburn is a man ahead of his time when it comes to medicine and forensics.”

“What’s forensics?”

Before Sam can answer, Ygritte and Jon storm in, and Ygritte’s eyes narrow when she sees the finger marking equipment. “Oi, what do you think you’re doing? You more than anyone, Tarly, know that you can’t just-”

“It’s alright,” Gilly quickly says. “I wanted to know how it worked, and Constable Tarly showed me.”

Still glaring at Sam, Ygritte tears the paper into pieces and goes to toss them into one of the stoves. When she comes back over, she asks, “Do you want me to walk you somewhere, Gilly?”

“If you don’t have somewhere else to be, that would be nice, thank you.”

“I don’t.”

Standing aside, Ygritte bumps into Jon.

“Oh, for-” Reaching into her pockets, he withdraws the hunting knife, arrows, and crossbows. “You were out last night, weren’t you?”

“Those are mine.” Ygritte snatches them back. “It’s not as if you lot are doing much. I didn’t see any of you while I was walking.”

“You bloody can’t roam the streets at night when there’s a murderer of women at large!”

“Someone has to.”

“Wait. Miss Gilly, were you out, too? Meaning no offence, but someone like you is in even more danger.”

Gilly echoes, “Someone has to.”

“Right, you have a knife and crossbow, she has absolutely nothing, and there’s no evidence that the killer isn’t threatening his victims, or her, I’ll concede, with a firearm.”

“I don’t trust firearms, but that don’t mean they scare me,” Ygritte says.

Jon stares.

“Miss Gilly, why don’t we go wait outside while they finish their conversation,” Sam suggests.

Gilly gratefully nods.

…

“I remember that harlot well,” Father Pycelle announces. “More should get what she got.”

Jon takes a small breath. “Did you see anyone talking to her that night?”

“They’re all worse than trash. At least, with trash-”

The sound of throat clearing fills the air. “Yes,” another elderly priest with milky eyes says, “we all know your views. Who is your guest, please?”

Standing, Jon walks over. “I’m Detective Jon Snow from the Wallington Police Station. I’m here about the young woman who was murdered on the eighth of last month.”

The priest finds Jon’s hand, shakes it, and squeezes it before letting go. “I’m Aemon Targaryen. Many of the children call me Father Almond. Come have a cuppa with me, Detective.”

Glancing back at Pycelle, Jon agrees, “Alright.”

…

In a small room with a cot, writing desk and chair, a small cooking stove, and window, Aemon pours two cups of tea and hands one to Jon. “Milk, lemon, or sugar?”

“No, thank you, Father,” Jon answers.

Sitting down on the bed, Aemon tells him, “I can see when there’s light and when it’s dark. That’s all I can see. However, Father Pycelle did tell me about that night. As he told little Gillyflower. I presume that’s why you’re here? She finally found someone willing to listen?”

“Yes. You and Miss Gilly are close?”

“She’s a sweet, young woman. Almost a child in some ways. Life hasn’t been kind to her. On that night, Father Pycelle saw a thin, well-dressed woman with a bonnet covering her hair talking to the young woman. She wore a crucifix.”

“Did he say anything about her height? Skin colour?”

“No,” Aemon answers. “I presume she was white, however, or else, he certainly would have said something. He didn’t say much about the style or colour of the dress, either.”

Jon sips his tea. “Father, what do you think of Miss Gilly’s theory?”

“It’s unlikely but not impossible by any means,” Aemon answers. “I know she believes it down to her bones. May God forgive any impropriety in these words, but while labelling her a murderess is likely a stretch, whoever this woman was, it’s more likely that she was around here for shady reasons rather than anything else. Most of those considered good, Christian women avoid neighbourhoods such as this unless they have need to do something unchristian. Sweet Gillyflower, I’d trust her more than I would them.”

“If it’s not a woman, who do you think the killer might be, Father?”

Aemon shrugs. “Here’s what I tell those who come to me, Detective: ‘There are no bad people, there are people with insufficient information to make appropriate decisions.’ It’s not always an easy thing for me to believe, but sometimes, faith is a hard thing that must be fought for. If a person is mad, they can neither claim the good or bad of any of their actions. Someday, the lord will grant them sanity. If a person faces bad circumstances, they might end up making a harmful decision. They’ll have a chance to make up for it or simply be forgiven one day.”

“Whoever this killer is, it’s not easy to have forgiving thoughts towards. I chose this neighbourhood when I was a young man. People, especially women and children, already suffer so much in this world. I can’t understand why someone would want to bring more to them. But then, I’m not God. It’s his duty to forgive, and it’s my duty to offer kindness and whatever help I can to others. I’m not required to condone their actions or have a high opinion of them personally, although, it does help when I can manage to the latter, at least.”

“Ah, but I suppose that doesn’t answer your question, does it? Man or woman, this person is intelligent, even if mad, and full of pain. Possibly hatred, as well. They won’t stop until they’re caught or die, Detective. I pray you find them, soon. I don’t agree with hanging, but right or wrong, I’d rather hear about them swinging than about another mutilated woman tragically taken.”

“Thank you, Father,” Jon softly says.

…

After leaving the church, Jon heads to off to see his friend, Ros.

Jon’s cousin, Theon Greyjoy, often patronises her. Once, Theon had paid for her to take Jon’s virginity, and though Jon had remained a virgin for several more years, he and Ros have become close friends. She often sends him telegrams when someone is causing a nuisance in her neighbourhood or threatening her or any of the fellow women in the trade she knows, and they’ve spent more than one Christmas together drinking eggnog and arguing over religion.

At her door, he does the knock they’ve established.

Opening the door, Ros smiles. “Hey. Come in.”

Doing so, he kisses her cheek. “There’s been a new development in the prozzie slayer case.”

“Such as, you’ve found him?”

“Unfortunately, no,” he answers. “I’m sorry.”

The first victim, Mhaegen, had been a friend of hers, and she’d worked hard to make sure Mhaegen’s infant daughter, Barra, had been taken in by a Baptist minister rather than put in a Catholic orphanage. He isn’t sure how to ask, but he suspects she occasionally visits the baby and likely will for a long time to come.

Sighing, she hands him a glass and digs a jug of milk out of her icebox. “We’ll just have to keep hoping, then, eh?” Sitting down, she pours the milk and takes a sip from her own glass.

“I’m not sure if I believe it, but there’s been some circumstantial evidence that the killer might be a woman.”

“If that’s true, we’re all doomed,” she says. “Meaning no offence to you, but you’d never catch her.”

“Thanks."

Shrugging, she gives him a slight smile. “I know men criminals, and I know women criminals, Jon, better than you ever will. Some would say I am the second. With a man, eventually, he’s going to come across a woman with one of those whistles you’ve been handing out, who’s quick enough to blow it. Eventually, it’ll be in a place where people come running. Or he’s just gonna to get cocky and sloppy and leave evidence.”

“If it’s a woman, though, God help us all, because, in times like this, women can’t afford to not trust other women. And women who are smart, even the most fearless like the lovely Ygritte, they’re never so confident they don’t worry about getting caught. So, they never do.”

“Well, our strongest suspect so far is Tyrion Lannister,” he tells her.

“No,” she says.

“No?”

“It’s no secret I’ve always been fond of him, both in and out of bed, but he’s been taken. By one of us, no less.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s this delightful foreign woman, Shae,” she says. “She moved here a few months ago. Lived in this neighbourhood for a few weeks, actually. Then, she moved into a hotel with him, and now, he doesn’t see me or any other woman but her, and she doesn’t see any men but him. I’m sure, if it weren’t for his wretched family, they’d make honest people out of one another.”

“Good for him, I suppose,” he replies. “Just to be safe, if you see any obviously highborn ladies wandering about the neighbourhood, don’t approach them, yeah? And contact me as soon as possible.”

“I will do."

“Thank you. I better get going.”

He stands, and she follows suit. Reaching out, she says, “Jon.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t blame you for the lack of progress. I know you’re trying, and I know you genuinely care about us. If anyone is going to find this evil, I’d lay money on it being you.”

Pulling her into a hug, he says, “Thank you. Take care of yourself, yeah?”

Kissing his cheek, she nods. “You, too.”

…

In the middle of the night, the sound of a whistle wakes Ros.

Grabbing her fireplace poker, she cautiously looks outside and rolls her eyes when she sees a drunken Meryn Trant cornering a woman. Adjusting the poker, she marches over. “Oi! Go find a hole to fall into, Trant. I’ve sent for Jon Snow.”

He turns, glares, and calls her several vile names.

She simply gives a subtle swing of the poker. “If I were that, I wouldn’t give ya no warning. Now, off with ya. I’ll tell him it was a mistake.”

“… damn, no-good…” he stumbles away.

Letting out a breath, Ros lowers the poker. “Are you alright, miss?”

In the street light, she sees the woman holding a whistle is an older, well-dressed woman with a crucifix necklace. She has a sickly complexion, almost no meat on her bones, and dark eyes with her hair covered by a bonnet.

“Yes, thank you,” the trembly-voiced woman answers. Casting a fearful look around, she says, “I’m- I’m not sure how I ended up in such a place."

“It’s alright,” Ros soothes. She reaches over. “Here. You can stay at mine until morning, and then, we’ll find you a cab, yeah?”

“That’s very kind of you,” the woman murmurs. “Who- who is this Mister Snow?”

“Detective Jon Snow,” Ros answers. “To tell the truth, there wasn’t time to send for him, but Trant doesn’t have any sense of time when he’s got drink in him, and even drunk as he was, he knows that, if any of us did send for Jon, he would come quick.”

Inside, she gestures to her chair and says, “Feel free to move my clothes. I’ll start a fire for you.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m Ros. No last name.”

“I’m Florence Estermont. You are- forgive me, but you are a lady of the night?”

“More of the day, but yes,” Ros cheerfully informs her. “Don’t worry, I’m not sick, and you can’t catch anything just from being around someone like me. I don’t have much food here, but would you like something to drink?”

“Yes, that would nice, thank you.”

Ros starts some tea. “There’s milk and lemons in the icebox. Would you get the milk, please? And the lemons if you fancy some.”

The woman gets out the milk, and after the tea is made, Ros gets them settled on the bed. “What’s a lady like you doing out at this time of night all alone?”

“I was going to see my sick sister, and the cab taking me was attacked. The driver and I were separated.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ros says. “I have a telegraph machine. Would you like to try sending a message to someone?”

“No, thank you. Have some more milk, dear.”

…

Ros blinks against the fuzziness, and seeing the crucifix, she grabs and tears.

The killer backhands her, and this is the last she sees or feels of anything.

…

Loud ringing fills Jon’s room, and he grumbles awake, “Bloody French. This is even further proof my stepmother hates me.”

Yawning, Ygritte kisses him. “Aye, no doubt about that. Suppose she has some faith in ya, though, or she’d let you sleep through life.”

Slipping out of bed, she starts to get dressed.

Finally managing to get the clock to stop ringing, Jon sits up fully. “Stay for breakfast?”

“Can’t. I’ve got dastardly deeds guaranteed to make your job even more annoying planned.”

“Right, well, thanks for the warning, I suppose.”

Grinning, she leans down and steals a kiss. “Hey, that’s more than you ever give me, eh? Take care, Jon Snow.”

“You, too."

…

Before Jon can sign in, Mormont grabs him. Using language he’d never use in front of women and children, he informs Jon, “There’s been another.”

Twisting out of his grip, Jon sighs. “I’ll get the finger marking kit.”

Ignoring Mormont’s increasing grumblings, he does, and outside at the carriage, he asks, “Who was she?”

Mormont hesitates.

“Sir,” Jon prompts.

“I’m sorry, lad,” Mormont softly says. “It’s Miss Ros. Maybe, someone else-”

Opening the carriage door, Jon says, “I can handle it, sir. Let’s make haste.”

Once Mormont is in, Jon takes a shuddery breath, steels himself, and follows.

…

Crossing himself, Jon takes steadying breaths.

This isn’t Ros, he decides.

Obviously, the decimated corpse is made up of the body Ros once inhabited, but this isn’t Ros herself. Ros is likely charming Saint Peter or hovering unseen with plans to make him suffer if he doesn’t quickly sort this out on her behalf.

Ros was alive and well last just night, and this is how he’ll keep her in his memories and heart.

Tearing his eyes away with another tremor, Jon sees Ros’s clothes are neatly folded on her chair.

This isn’t strange by itself. He knows Ros sleeps in nightdresses and always leaves a pair of folded clothes on the chair at night for in the morning. The night Theon paid for, Ros had undressed in front of him and neatly folded her clothes as she’d done so.

However, this is another way she’s different from the other four. Aside from her working in a daytime brothel, none of the other victims took the killer home. There’s no evidence they willingly undressed for him (or her, he reminds himself).

“Snow,” Mormont says.

Looking over, Jon sees Mormont is pulling a piece of cloth out of the dying fire with a poker. “Would Miss Ros have any reason to burn cloth?”

“No, sir, none,” Jon answers. “Ros always donates- donated the clothes and linens she no longer found suitable to hospitals or friends. And- Sir, I don’t think she would have made a fire last night. Ros could walk through a night colder than this without a shiver, and she could walk through a hot summer day with no umbrella with barely a sweat. Even if she had a welcomed guest, unless they were sick or a child, she would have just piled them with blankets and the like.”

He suffered through one snowy Christmas here and, as a result, decided afterwards they’d have future Christmases at his. However, once when Arya and Rickon had unexpectedly shown up, she’d had him build a fire for them, despite it not being too cold out.

“This could be evidence, then?”

“Yes, sir.” He studies the cloth. It’s black, though, whether this is its original colour or from the fire, he’s not sure. Other than this, he’s not sure what to make of it. It could be anything from a sock to a piece of a dress.

“Inspector,” he hears.

Looking over, he sees the station’s photographers have arrived, and suddenly, he feels a new wave of sickness. 

It’s necessary, he knows this, but to have her photographed like this-

This isn’t Ros, he reminds himself.

…

After the body is taken, Jon makes some calls and finds out Ygritte is at the post office.

When he gets there, relief washes over him.

A group of people have made a linked-arms circle around the building. Past them, the front door has been chained shut, and wearing bloomers, leather boots and gloves, and a cowboy hat, Ygritte is sitting in a chair with her left wrist and right ankle chained to the door. Not seeing her father, Tormund, in the human chain, Jon knows he’s likely chained to the backdoor.

Spotting Karsi, a suffragette he’s on fair terms with, Jon goes over. “It’s just me,” he quietly says. “I don’t have the equipment to cut her loose. Will you please let me through?”

Before Karsi can respond, Ygritte calls, “Business or pleasure, Jon Snow?”

“I just need to talk to you for a minute,” he calls back. “We’re too busy to deal with whatever this is at the moment!”

“I suppose I’m not too busy to talk for a minute!"

They let him through.

“What’s this about, then,” he asks.

“You can blame your friend, Tarly, for this. He gave them the idea of photographing the outside of every letter and package that comes through.”

“Why would they do that?”

“They claim it’s to make sure no mail gets lost. Really, it’s to make your job easier and to keep certain people, especially women, under control. Someone writes to a known criminal a lot, you start investigating them. A married woman writes to a man not related to her or vice versa, or two unmarried people of the opposite sex write a lot but don’t plan to get married- a lot of ways all that can be used against them.”

“I don’t think we’d do that. They’re not opening the mail and actually reading it, are they?”

“Supposedly not,” Ygritte answers. “That’s illegal, after all. But I know how to open and reseal a letter so no one would ever know, and if I know how to do that but these postal workers don’t, that’s just more proof a woman can be just, if not more, qualified than they are.”

“Fair enough,” he says. “But closing down the entire post office?”

“We tried petitioning the courts, but we were flat-out shut down each time. So, yes, until this becomes a proper legal case, the post office is staying shut.”

“You didn’t use violence to clear it out, did you?”

“No one threw any bricks, if that’s what you mean.”

He laughs. “Good.”

“If not for this, why are you here?”

Sadness and a sense of helplessness suddenly flood him. “I needed to see that you were alright,” he admits. “There was another victim last night. It- Ros is dead.”

Tilting her head, she studies his face, and then, jumping up, she pulls him into a hug. “Oh, Jon. I’m so sorry.”  

She’s warm and strong against him, no one will ever manage to hurt her, he has to believe this, and especially not right now. Not with a chain of people surrounding her.

Bringing his hand up, he hastily wipes away his tears. Moving back, he says, “I’m fine. I should get-”

She grabs his hand. “Someone else can take my place. Do you- I could go somewhere with you.”

Touched, he shakes his head. “No. I wouldn’t ask you to do that. Just- I know you and Ros got on. Please, please, don’t do anything dangerous for her sake.”

“You’re in more danger of that than I am,” she points out. “As angry as I am, it’s not so much as wanting to catch this monster as it protecting women from ‘em for me. Don’t worry, though. I’m probably not leaving from this spot for a day or two.”

“Until we’re called down, good luck.”

Moving closer, she gently kisses him. “I’m here if you need me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forms of alarm clocks have been around since, at least, Ancient Greece. However, according to Wikipedia, in 1847, Antoine Redier, a French inventor, was the first to patent an adjustable mechanical alarm clock.


	3. Chapter 3

When Jon gets back from checking on Ygritte, Mormont grouses, “Things aren’t adding up.”

“Sir?”

“I’ve been interviewing witnesses. Now, neither of us are doctors, but I think it’s clear the gel was done in sometime last night.” Pausing, he says, “Snow, truly, if this case-”

“I’m fine, sir,” Jon insists. “It was bad enough when this person was taking innocent women. Now, they’ve taken a close family friend. I’m going to be objective, I’m going to help find them, and I’m going to watch them hang. You don’t need to worry about me reacting badly.”

Squeezing his shoulder, Mormont nods. “It’s clear she was killed sometime last night. But several witnesses, all of them who strike me as honest, swear they saw Miss Ros walking around this morning. They were worried she might be ill due to her walking with a slump and having her hair covered.”

“Hair covered?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Mormont says. “Brace yourself: A few witnesses also say that a whistle was blown last night. Ros came out with her poker, I wish to God I hadn’t touched it, and drove off Trant from a tall woman wearing a bonnet. I’m going to need that urchin Tarly talked to brought in.”

“Yes, sir. Uh, Inspector, did these witnesses say specifically what clothes the person they think was Ros was wearing?”

“I have it in my notes. Let’s go to my office.”

…

After they establish it’s likely the killer did wear Ros’s clothes, Jon changes out of his uniform and heads Sisters of the Light, the Magdalene laundry Gilly’s staying at.

A nun in an old-fashioned habit stares piercingly at him. “I’m Sister Unella. No man may go upstairs, and when it comes to boys, only those twelve and under are allowed. If you wish to enter the laundering area, I need to ask why.”

He shows her his badge. “Sister, I’m Detective Jon Snow. One of your tenants, Gilly, isn’t in trouble, but I do need to bring her to the station. She might have pertinent information on something.”

Her sharp eyes studies his face. “The slayer of prostitutes, I presume.”

“I can’t say, ma’am.”

“Sister,” she corrects. “Over here.” Going over to a telephone, she crisply demands, “Name of the police station, your inspector, and the telephone number to the police station, please.”

Giving her the information, he waits.

“Who am I speaking to? I'm Sister Unella. Yes, that is our laundry. Inspector Mormont, there’s an uniformed man here with a badge.” Motioning for Jon to hand it over, she reads off the number. “The name and description of this man, please. Yes. And why was he sent here? I understand. Please be aware that I will be keeping this badge for the time being, and if our Gilly isn’t returned to us by tea time, we will take action against your station. May God bless you.”

She hangs up. “You will stay here while I fetch her.”  

…

After leaving Gilly with Mormont, Jon goes down to the morgue.

“Ah, good,” Qyburn says. “I was just about to send for you. Miss Ros has proven to be an interesting case.”

Jon notes with dull relief the body has been fully covered and, whatever happened to the organs, they aren’t in sight. “How so?”

“She had a powerful sleeping agent in her system, for one. She and the other victims were killed with a quick slash to the brachial artery, yet, none of them save the one with a cup or two of mead in her had anything designed to alter consciousness. It’s not my place to speculate on the motive of the killer, but if I might suggest, it was different for Miss Ros, because, she was in building full of people. Slashing the brachial artery is quick, but it’s not painless. If they were conscious, there could be enough time for the victim to scream.”

“In- in your opinion, then, Ros didn’t suffer?”

“I’m sorry,” Qyburn says with uncharacteristically gentle eyes. “I wish I could tell you it was. However, there are two other facts that differentiate her. Someone backhanded her either minutes before or after her death. It’s relatively safe to assume this was the killer, but technically, the matter is inconclusive. Now, this is where things get truly interesting, Detective.”

“After the body was clean, I found markings on Miss Ros’s right hand. Here’s a picture.”

Jon studies it. “Stigmata? No, that can’t be.”

“I agree,” Qyburn dryly replies. “I found traces of bronze and fabric. My guess is a crucifix necklace. Again, this is inconclusive, but the evidence points to her grabbing her killer’s necklace along with some fabric from the killer’s outfit and giving a mighty tug. What I can say for certain is: The crucifix stayed in her hand for some time after death. It had to be literally pried out. Not by me. It was gone by the time she was brought in.”

Remembering what he was told about the mystery woman talking to the second victim wearing a crucifix, he nods. “Is that all?”

“Involving the case, yes. If the killer left finger marks on Miss Ros or the organs, unfortunately, we destroyed those when we washed the blood away. I am working on ways to obtain finger markings hosted underneath blood and other such things, but- ah, apologises. You gave the order that her body not be delivered to Mercy of Lost Soul’s Boneyard?”

“That’s right. How long can you hold the body here?”

“Provided there’s not an unexpected influx of numerous bodies at once, for as long as you want.”

“Do that, then,” Jon orders. “I need to find a Baptist minister, and then, she’s to be cremated. I don’t understand or completely agree with it, but that’s what she wanted.”

“If I may, what do you intend to with the ashes?”

The question deflates him.

He knows Ros’s soul might never rest in peace if she has a Catholic funeral, and wherever she is, she’ll make sure his soul will never rest in peace if he doesn’t see her cremated. However, aside from making it clear she wanted cremation in the event of her death, she never went into what should be done afterwards, and he never thought to ask.

Leaving, he answers, “I’ll figure it out, later.”

…

“Jon!”

Jon turns to see Sam rushing over. Before he can say anything, Sam pulls him into a hug. “I’m so sorry. I only just heard about Miss Ros when Miss Gilly came down. Is there anything I can do?”

Relaxing into the hug, Jon closes his eyes. “Thanks, Sam. No, not right now.” Moving back, he tries to smile. “What was Miss Gilly doing down in the basement?”

“She had some more questions about finger marking. Um, Inspector Mormont is shutting the station down and calling all officers in. Mayor Baratheon is coming. We’re going to have a meeting on how we should proceed with the case. If-”

“Sam, I can’t miss that meeting. Don’t worry. When this is all over, I’ll take the time to properly grieve for Ros, yeah?”

Putting an arm over his shoulders, Sam squeezes and gives him a sympathetic smile. “Of course.”

Jon squeezes his hand. “Thanks, though. For being such a good friend.”

…

After Mrs Baratheon is comfortably settled in Mormont’s office, everyone gathers in the basement.

“Miss Gilly is safely back at her Maggie house, but it might be pertinent to put protection on her,” Mormont says. “I’ll admit when I’m wrong and say everyone should have listened to her at the beginning. In addition, she suggested the reason the killer waited so long to leave was she, the killer, needed to make adjustments to Miss Ros’s clothing.”

“I’ll soon check everything being brought in from Miss Ros’s room for unknown finger markings,” Qyburn says. “Constable Pypar has graciously offered to assist me.”

Pyp nods.

“Since all of our markings are on file,” Qyburn continues, “we’ll be able to quickly rule those out. Any unknown we find, we’ll see if they match any of the others with have on record.”

Mayor Baratheon clears his throat. “The main question is: Do we release this new information to the public? At all costs, we must try to ensure the people target no innocent women. Crucifix necklaces don’t seem to be in style at present, but they used to be very popular. In fact, my late mother, my wife, and my daughter have all been in possession of such necklaces. I don’t want unnecessary suspicion falling onto a genuinely devout woman who wears such a symbol of her faith.”

“I feel the same about women who cover their hair,” Pyp quietly says. “Me mam and sisters, all but the youngest, hold to that fashion. But I know, as older women die out, they’re becoming rarer in doing so.”

“This woman apparently wore a bonnet,” Jon interjects. “That’s what makes her so strange. Most women who cover their hair do it with scarves, snoods, and veiled hats. My stepmother and oldest half-sister wouldn’t step out into public without a snood. But if anyone bothers your family, Pyp, we’ll sort it.”

Pyp gives him a grateful nod.

“Could we find out what places sell bonnets,” Mayor Baratheon asks. “And if so, can we find out who they’ve sold them to? If they’ve had any thefts of the item?”

“We’ll start sending officers around to shops straight away, sir,” Mormont answers.

“Good. Now, back to the question of how much information do we release to the public,” Mayor Baratheon says.

Everyone pauses when they hear the door up above opening.

Mrs Baratheon comes down with a large package in her hands. “I’m sorry to interrupt, husband,” she says to Mayor Baratheon. “This little lad came in with this. He said he tried the post office, but it seems the suffragettes and several others have forcibly closed it down.”

Jon squirms at the glare Mormont shoots him.

Standing up, Mayor Baratheon takes it. “Thank you, wife.” Handing it over to Mormont, he asks, “Was this boy a delivery boy, or was this a personal delivery from himself?”

“A delivery boy,” she answers. “Someone left it at his cottage with some money and instructions to mail it here. When he couldn’t, he decided to bring here himself rather than try to find the person who wanted it delivered.”

As she talks, she re-pins her brownish-blonde hair back into place. It must have escaped from her hairpins when she was lugging the package around, Jon realises.

He also realises he’s never really taken in Mrs Baratheon before. The few times she’s been around, she’s simply been a figure demanding automatic respect due to all highborn ladies and quietness.

She’s as tall her husband, he sees, and despite hearing others describe her as sickly, he sees no trace of this. She’s rail thin with an angular face and pale-skinned to the point of being somewhat patsy, but the way she holds herself and her dark eyes are full of undeniable strength.

“Why didn’t this boy do his job and take it down himself, then,” Mayor Baratheon grumbles. “Making a gentlelady-”

Putting a hand on his arm, she softly says, “Husband, please, don’t be cross with him. This boy was so tiny, he was practically dwarfed by the package. I gave him some pennies and sent him away. Oh, here, Constable, please, allow me to help you.”

Jon sees a red-faced Sam was about to cut the box open. Or rather, he’d already tried but was having little luck.

Mrs Baratheon expertly cuts the packaging and, then, the sound of the knife clattering startles everyone.

Mormont yanks her away, puts himself between her and it, and desperately orders, “Mr Mayor, take your wife, quickly!”

Making his way through, Jon peers into the box and finds himself staring at a clear jar. Inside, similar to what he’s seen when his father has taken him hunting, is some sort of organ preserved in a strange coloured liquid.


	4. Chapter 4

Testily, Mormont orders, “Take Grenn and Tollett down to the post office and try to find out if we can identify this delivery boy without having to bring Mrs Baratheon back here.”

After a moment of inner debate, Jon says, “You know that I’m the last to defend Miss Giantsbane, sir, but it’s worth pointing out, if this boy had succeeded in properly mailing it, we’d likely never know about him, and he is our best bet at finding the original sender.”

He hadn’t thought about this earlier, but: People can send things through the post without putting their name on the envelope or packaging. Therefore, unless there’s proof the post office is actually opening mail, he doesn’t see why this newest crusade of Ygritte’s or whoever she’s backing has started.

Then again, he usually has little understanding of the causes she champions. There are three he does agree with her wholeheartedly on, and he’ll likely never admit this or what the three things are to her, mostly because, he doubts she’d believe him.

“And if he’d been able to mail properly, there’s a very good chance Mrs Baratheon wouldn’t have been handling the package and, worse, seen what was inside,” Mormont snaps. “I may have to try to convince our mayor to let us take his wife’s finger markings so that we can separate hers from any others on or in the packaging!”

Jon decides it’ll be best to go find Grenn and Tollet while Mormont is catching his breath.

…

Grenn and Eddison immediately start talking to people in the circle, and Jon calls out, “We’re still not here about this, Ygritte! It’s about the prozzie slayer case!”

Before Ygritte can even respond, two people in the chain unclasp their hands and move a few inches apart.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Oi, where’s the proof in his words!"

“Most of them know me well enough to know I wouldn’t lie about such a thing or use it to my advantage,” he points out. “Including you.”

“Most, not all. And most weren’t betrayed by you, Jon Snow.”

“You don’t get to use that,” he tiredly says.

“Can, do, and will."

“Right. Look, did a delivery boy with a large package come by earlier today?”

“Podrick Payne did, yes,” she answers.

Startled at this turn of good luck, he kneels down next to her chair. “You know the name of the boy?”

“Aye. He-” Suddenly, she laughs. “He insists on calling himself a squire.”

“A squire? We haven’t had those in ages, have we?”

She shrugs. “Brienne of Tarth took him in about a year ago. You call us unconventional, Jon Snow? Wait ‘til ya meet her. More-or-less, Pod is a personal servant to her, but he makes deliveries on the side, and like I said, he lives in this different world in his head where Lady Tarth is some sort of knight, and he’s her squire.”

“That package,” she continues, “he reckons it arrived sometime last night or very early this morning. Lord Tarth, Lady Tarth’s father, gave him their old gamekeeper’s cottage, but Pod usually sleeps in the manor. Last night, he left at about seven, and it was on the cottage’s doorstep when he went down there this morning.”

“Wait,” he says. “You- talked to him? Today?”

She nods.

“How’d that come about?”

“Little lad like him wasn’t going to do anyone any harm, so, when he asked, we let him through. Whoever left the package left him with more silver moons than he’d possibly need to cover the delivery and postage. He asked me about how to exchange them for English money.”

He gives her a questioning look, and she explains, “Lord Tarth does a lot of business in England.”

“But-” He pauses.

“Most, if not all of it, legally belongs to Pod. Don’t matter to him. The Tarths feed and clothe him, and he has a warm place to sleep at night. I told him it would be best to go Westerlands’ Iron Bank.”

“No doubt, but that’s a day and night’s train ride away." Then, he quickly realises this is not the time to get into such discussions. “Never mind. Where can we find the Tarths?”

“Speaking of trains, you might not want to go yourself, seeing as how you hate boats even more than you do them," she warns.

“Oh, sweet mother of Mary, they’re one of those very rich families that live on actual bloody island and more-or-less rule the not rich people, aren’t they?”

Taking off his hat, she plays with his curls. “The ‘lord’ and ‘lady’ bit didn’t give it away? Northeast of shipbreaker bay. Sapphire Island, it’s called. The Tarths have a fleet of submarines, including a small, one-seater that Pod’s allowed to use. If you sent a telegram, they might send one to-”

Feeling queasy at the mere thought, he tries to focus on the feeling of her fingers in his hair. “I’ll take a boat over that.”

She grins.

“Don’t start,” he orders. “Can you tell me when exactly the last time you saw him was?”

“Over an hour but less than two ago."

Mathematics has never exactly been his strong suit, but this doesn’t strike him as right. “What?”

“He came back after he made the delivery. Some lady gave him some pennies, and so, he went and bought some peanuts for Tormund and a milk soda for me.”

Jon’s mostly gotten used to the fact Ygritte calls her father by his first name and simply teases, “Oh, and why would he do that?”

Of course, he knows the reason. If he’s as infuriated with his unconventional mistress as much as she makes him out to be, this lad is obviously the type who’d quickly fall in puppy love with someone like Ygritte.

He winces at the smack across the head she gives him. “You know how hungry Tormund always is, but we can’t risk having hot or sweet food around in case it attracts animals. We’ve been eating stale popcorn and drinking soft cider. While Pod was here the first time, the one who supposedly seeded my mother wouldn’t shut it about how he wanted some blasted peanuts. So, Pod came back with some peanuts for him, and knowing I like milk soda, some of that for me.”

“Thanks,” he softly says. “When this is all over, assuming you and the rest of them aren’t in the cells for an extended amount of time, do you- I could take some time off, and I’m sure your dad and the others could manage without you for a few days. We could go up into the mountains for a weekend or even take an airship-”

“Even managing a five-minute carriage ride with you is trying, Jon Snow,” she interrupts. Putting his hat back on, she adjusts it so it’s crooked and briefly trails her fingers over his face. “Another trip to the mountains sounds good.”

Nodding, he stands and adjusts his hat properly, but to his surprise, before he can leave, she grabs his wrist. “Jon- I don’t know how you handle difficult cases, and I try not to care, but I know this one has been difficult from the start, and now, with our Ros being one of the victims, it’s even harder. Try not to handle it badly, yeah?”

Feeling warmth chipping away at the numbness he’s been building up, he nods. “I won’t,” he promises.

She briefly squeezes his wrist before letting go.

Once she does, he feels the fading numbness rapidly returning.

…

“We definitely need to find this boy,” Mormont declares. “Qyburn can’t be sure, but he thinks the partial womb belonged to Miss Mhaegen.”

“Ros’s friend?”

Mormont nods.

“Her- womb?”

“It was noted as missing, along with one of her kidneys, but we all assumed coyotes or direwolves were responsible,” Mormont heavily says. “Anyway, there was a letter within the package and a bronze crucifix. The note, all standardised spelling and fancy words, insists that they are not the killer, they’re sorry for the evil that’s been done, and they’re returning what they can of Miss Mhaegen as a sign of respect. No mention is made of who the killer might be, however. The crucifix- after it’s done been examined for finger marks, Qyburn is going to try to see if it matches the one Miss Ros grabbed.”

“Why now, after five- Miss Mhaegen was the first.”

“I can’t say, lad. The womb was preserved in a mixture of herbs. Qyburn’s very impressed,” he says with a disgusted frown. “We’re trying to ascertain if we could have possibly missed any missing organs from the other victims.”

“Who should I take with me to Sapphire Island, sir?”

“Snow, it’ll be night by the time a ship reaches there. I can assign-”

Remembering the accusations from Ygritte and Gilly both hurled at him about not enough being done and Ros’s kind words about how she knew he was, Jon knows the former were right, and the latter suffered horribly and needlessly for it. “Sir, I’d like to go. Please. You know I can handle working late, and I don’t have any family obligations.”

“If you’re sure-”

“I am, sir.”

…

After dark, Tormund comes around the post office with Della. She unchains Ygritte, and he comments, “I imagine your bobby won’t be happy about this.”

Standing up, she scoffs and rubs at her wrist and ankle. “Jon Snow isn’t mine, and I sure ain’t his.” Digging her hunting knife, crossbow, and arrows out of her bloomer pockets, she starts to load the latter into the former and asks, “Orell has the back?”

He adjusts the chains on Della. “Aye.” He presses his hand against her cheek. “Be safe, yeah?”

“Of course,” she says. “Man or woman, anyone who deliberately goes after such easy targets is weak, and no weakling is ever going get one on me.”

Laughing, he nods and kisses her cheek. “Good. Maybe we’ll all get lucky and you’ll catch ‘em.”

Briefly hugging him, she adjusts the knife and crossbow, fully straightens, and walks past the opening in the circle. Once she’s past, she turns, and seeing the circle is re-established, heads off into the night.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: The idea of submarines has been around for a very long time, and according to Wikipedia, the first documented case of one was in 1620. 
> 
> On another note, I've decided on this rule for the fic's setting: Nothing technological that came after 1899 will be in this fic. However, this doesn't mean liberties won't be taken. It's not likely random people, especially the poorer classes, would have telegraph machines, and in our world's pre-20th century, the idea of a family having a fleet of submarines, including a small one for personal use, is completely unrealistic. In the fic, however, the advancement and availability of certain things is different.
> 
> When it comes to food, I'm going to try to stick to things that would realistically be found in pre-20th century, but I might mess up. In regards to this chapter, however, popcorn has been consumed by different cultures for thousands of years, and the Victorians did have milk soda. I'm not entirely sure about the soft cider, but I know alcoholic (hard) cider has been around for a long time.


	5. Chapter 5

“Everyone’s working late.”

Jumping, Sam looks over from the stacks of papers he’s rearranging. “Oh, hello, Miss Gilly. What are you doing here so late?”

Coming over, Gilly looks down. “You’re going through women criminals? If she’s highborn, she’s not likely to be here.”

“Most likely. But it’s what Inspector Mormont has ordered me to do.”

“Besides the first, did any of the other women have children?”

“Not that I know of,” he answers. “Why?”

Sitting down in a chair, she withdraws a small sewing kit, takes off her left shoe and sock, and begins mending the thin, well-worn sock. “Blood makes flowers and crops grow better. I don’t know about people, but some women at the Maggie house believe that the blood that comes from women when they aren’t pregnant- Do you understand?”

A bit red in the face, he nods, pulls a chair over near hers, and sits down.

“They believe that blood, if comes from a mother, will help them grow babies inside. What if that’s why the killer took her womb?”

Sam finds himself wondering why it took people so long to start listening when it came to her theories. “It could be, but how would the killer know about the baby? Her daughter was in a friend’s care at the time. In fact,” he tells her, “we didn’t really establish a clear M.O. until the third victim. Miss Mhaegen might not have been looking for customers that night. We’ve never been able to discover who, but some of her friends insisted the man who- was with her when Barra was conceived was quietly giving her enough money to look after both of them.”

Gilly pauses in threading her needle. “Did Miss Ros seem like she might’ve known who this man was?”

“She didn’t,” he answers. “If she knew, she would have told Jon. What she did tell him is that she suspected a man, she didn’t know who, was doing this, but she’d never pried. Despite all she did for little Barra, she and Miss Mhaegen were friendly rather than actual friends, it seems.”

Threading the needle and resuming her sewing, Gilly frowns. “What’s an M.O.?”

He explains.

“Oh. Well, if the killer is a midwife or nurse, she might have known about the baby after she started cutting Miss Mhaegen up.”

“That’s true, but eyewitness accounts point to a highborn lady.”

Gilly shrugs. “How old do they think the woman Miss Ros took in was?”

“I don’t know,” he answers. “Probably not very old or young, or else, someone likely would have said something.”

“During the civil war, a lot of highborn ladies volunteered as nurses.”

“Our latest civil war, or some other country’s?”

She stares at him. “There’s only ever been one.”

“No, we’ve eighteen confirmed ones in, and civil wars aren’t just limited to us. My father actually helped in the American one, not that I’m saying that was good, mind you. And Japan looks as though they’re gearing up for one.”

Her staring increases, and he shifts uncomfortably.

Finally, she demands, “Can you prove this, like you did with the finger marks? Or are you having a go, now?”

“Well, I could if I had certain books and newspapers. Gilly- sorry, Miss Gilly, you can ask anyone here, working at the station, that is, and they’ll tell you, while I make bad jokes all the time, I don’t- I wouldn’t make up untrue things, and then, mock people for believing me.”

Still giving him a suspicious look, she finishes sewing up her sock and slips it and her shoe back on. “Why do you make bad jokes? And why wasn’t your father fighting in the American civil war good?”

“He’s sore over his side losing,” Sam quietly says. “I’m sore over the side he was fighting on.”

“Not because they lost?”

“No. I’m glad they did,” he answers even more quietly.

After a moment, she says, “Well, I was born here, and that was a year after our civil war ended. I’m nineteen, now, and they took girls as young as fourteen and fifteen to be nurses back then. So, this killer, if she’s highborn, she might have been involved in the civil war. If she was young, then, she probably wouldn’t be too old, now, to get around and kill.”

“That- we could start going through, well, I mean, I could, start going through nurse’s registries. I know some of them included those who volunteered during the civil war. It likely be more fruitful than going through records of common women criminals.”

Gilly gives him a slight smile.

“But,” he continues, “having a possible motive might help.” Queasily, he says, “I’m fairly sure- couldn’t a person get menstrual blood from a pregnant woman or who’s given birth if they had a desire for such a thing? Without resorting to killing and stealing an entire womb? And if this isn’t the motive- Only one known victim is confirmed to be a mother. Not liking prostitutes, many highborn ladies don’t, but they don’t decide to become brutal murderers.”

“I don’t know,” Gilly says. “Maybe she’s just mad. Or maybe she lost a baby or couldn’t have one. If I could never have a baby- I might be sad, someday, but I don’t think I’d know any different. But if I ever lost- The pain of that might break anyone. But,” she adds with a shiver, “I don’t think I’d do all this. People being cruel to others just because they hurt, I’ve never been able to understand. Of course, I get cross sometimes, but-” She shakes her head.

“I understand." He stands. “Um, I don’t have anything for fare, but if you want, I could see if the inspector would let us take a carriage. Or would you rather someone walk you back to the laundry?”

“You’re making me leave?”

“What? I mean, no. If you want to stay, you’re free to, Miss Gilly, but I need to start going to hospitals soon. I wish I could contact Jon about all this.”

She stands up. “I’m going with you.”

He gapes.

“I can’t read," she declares, "and I don’t understand a lot of what you say, but you listen to me. And so far, listening to me has turned out to be helpful, hasn’t it?”

“I- suppose it can’t hurt,” he says.

“Let’s go, then.”

…

Jon isn’t as bad as Sam, but he hates ships, and after they finally get to Tarth at seven in the bloody morning, he’s reminding himself why he can’t murder the incompetent captain who got them off-course during the night.

The fact the forefront reason in his mind he can’t kill the captain is because he left his firearm behind isn’t exactly a thought he should be entertaining, he knows, but he can’t quite help himself.

Thankfully, he and Hobb quickly find a vendor, and though Jon would prefer real meat, he settles for crab pie and a brew.

Unthankfully, Hobb gets in a spirited discussion with the vendor on how to properly broil scallops.

“Look, I’m going to head to the Tarth manor. I’ll come back soon, yeah,” Jon says.

Grunting, Hobb waves his three-fingered hand in acknowledgement.

Sighing, Jon heads off to find a taxi and reflects on how Hobb really should resign and start his own restaurant.

…

Pypar knocks on Mormont’s door. “Sir, Trant was just found dead?”

“Trant?” Rubbing his forehead, Mormont says, “Please, tell me the drunken bastard died from indisputably natural causes so that we don’t have to waste any of our precious time on him.”

“Sorry, sir,” Pyp says. “He has a nasty cut on his arm. And-” Pyp hesitates. “Qyburn is saying he might be a victim of the prozzie slayer since a cut to the arm is how they all died, and Miss Ros did save some woman from him that night she was done in.”

Mormont spews out some rather creative profanity in response to this.

…

Jon lets out a breath of relief when he steps out of the cab.

He’s not particularly sure where the Tarth estate ends and begins.

There’s the street he’s standing on, and then, there’s a giant field off green going in almost every direction. In the far distance, practically on top of the water, is a manor.

Stepping onto the grass, he looks around as he walks and soon spots a cabin. Going up to it, he finds a tiny boy with slightly curly hair and a chubby face polishing what looks to be _armour_.

Looking up, the boy takes in his uniform, sets the armour aside, stands, and bows.

“Hello, lad,” he greets. “I’m Detective Jon Snow. What’s your name?”

Jon has to strain to hear, “P-Pod. Podrick Pa-Payne, sir.”

“Is that armour?”

Pod nods. “Lady Brienne of Tarth swordfights, sir.” With clear admiration in his eyes, Pod informs him, “S-she’s the best fighter there is, sir.”

Jon had been expecting a lovestruck boy of about twelve or thirteen, the normal age for delivery boys, not some eight or nine-year-old, ten at the oldest, who has the same worship he had for his father and Robb when he was a child for his mistress’s ability to fight.

He kneels down. “Tell me, Pod, is Lady Brienne’s surname Tarth, or is that a title?”

“Both, sir.”

“You’re going to need to explain that.”

“Tarth was an i-island, sir. It was lost in the 1600s. Some of my lady’s family were in the Reach when it dis-disappeared, and they replaced their surname, Evenstar, with Tarth. When Durran Durrandon, an ancestor of Lady Brienne’s, was knighted, he had it made part of his titles.”

“Is Lady Brienne around? I need to talk you and her both.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll- I’ll fetch her for you?”

“That would be good. Thank you.”

Jon follows the half-tumbling, half-skipping Pod.

They come to a fence, and Pod climbs on top of it, carefully stands on top, and begins waving.

For a moment or two, nothing happens, but then, from some nearby woods, a tall rider appears on a magnificent white horse.

The rider comes over, swiftly dismounts, and pulls Pod down. “Pod, what have- A police officer?”

This- woman is blue-eyed, young, taller and heavier than him, and has a thick, milk white face sprinkled with freckles. She wears trousers, what looks to be an ill-fitted men’s shirt, and leather boots and gloves. Most interestingly, however, is the black bonnet covering her hair.

Forcing himself to reply, Jon says, “Yes, Lady Tarth." He shows her his badge. “I’m Detective Jon Snow. Tell me, my lady, have you heard of the prozzie slayer case?”

“No,” she answers. “Pod?”

Pod shakes his head. “No, my lady.”

“Someone has been killing prostitutes, Lady Tarth.”

If possible, her skin goes paler. “That’s horrible. Is this case why you’re here?”

“Yes, my lady,” he answers. “Yesterday, Podrick delivered a package from what might be the killer or someone who knows who the killer is. I’d like for him to come back voluntarily, but if he refuses or you refuse to relinquish him, I will have no choice but to arrest one or both of you.”

“There’s no need,” she says a bit stiffly. “We’ll come willingly.”

Giving her a startled look, Pod stammers, “M-my l-lady?”

“Of course, I’m not letting you go alone. Go inside and call to ask if Hyde will come over and mind the horses, and then, get my sword.”

“Wait,” Jon orders. “Your sword?”

“Yes. My father is not home, Detective Snow. I assure you this is not me casting a shadow over you or any men along with you, but I am an unmarried woman in charge of a young boy. In addition, you and them might be carrying firearms. I should have the right to ensure my safety and that of Pod.” 

Jon doesn’t think this woman is the killer, but there is something unseen connecting either her or the boy or both to the case, and frankly, they both unsettle him. However, he knows, if he doesn’t handle this carefully, there could be unending trouble. She is an unmarried noble woman with a wealthy father.

At least, he reflects, I’ve had practise when it comes to swords.

The same can’t be said of having arrows shot at him, and the scars he received still itch when it’s about to rain.

“Very well,” he says.

“Go on, Pod,” she orders.

Pod does.

“That’s an interesting bonnet, my lady.”

She studies him closely for a moment. “Thank you. It belonged to my grandmother.”

“Your servant says you swordfight. My youngest sister is fascinated by sword fighting. That and hunting. Do you hunt, my lady?”

“On occasion, though, I prefer fishing,” she answers. “Is your sister any good?”

“She’s getting there. A friend of mine is teaching her to properly shoot.”

“That’s kind of them. I’ve never learned.”

“No? But you just said-”

“Despite my size, I can move rather silently, and I have a strong grip. When I catch an animal, I slit their throat. This strikes me as kinder than having them shot.”

Jon is relatively sure this woman isn’t the killer, but all the same, he’s relieved Hobb did bring a firearm.

…

Once Sam and Gilly have gone to the last hospital and morgue in city limits and loaded up the carriage with the files given, Sam buys them meat pies with tea for her and coffee for himself.

“Where do we start,” Gilly asks.

“We need to find out which nurses are dead, first. Then, we need to find out which of them are highborn. It’s a shame no one keeps a registry of-” He pauses.

“What?”

“Actually, there might be, albeit an unofficial one. But if I’m right, it’s just as good.”

Finishing her pie, Gilly asks, “Where do we find it?”

“We need to go to Jon’s family home.”

Going over to the carriage, she motions for him to come help her up. He does, quickly finishes the last of the meat pies, and climbs in beside her.

…

Gilly stares at the large estate. “I didn’t know Detective Snow was highborn.”

“In a way, he’s not,” Sam says. “Uh, Lord Eddard Stark was with someone other than his wife, and the next winter, Jon came. Lord Stark took Jon in and acknowledged him as his son. When Jon got accepted as a constable, after he got his first pay, he moved out.”

“And we’re going to find a list of all the highborn ladies here?”

“I think so, yes. Or at least, all the ones from this area over the past forty something years.” He offers his arm, and giving him a slight smile, she looks away and links hers through it.

They go to the door, and Sam rings the bell.

A servant answers, and soon, Lady Catelyn Stark appears. “Constable Tarly." She spares a curious glance at Gilly. “Has something happened to Detective Snow? Arya, Bran, and Rickon called his boarding house this morning, but they were told he never made it home last night. I assumed he and Miss Giantsbane were occupied elsewhere and told them they could call again tonight.”

“As far as I know, Jon’s fine, Lady Stark,” Sam answers. “He left for the Sapphire Isle last night to find a possible witness. My lady, I know this might sound a bit odd, but does Sansa still have that scrapbook of newspaper clippings about coming out parties?”

Raising her eyebrow, Catelyn answers, “Yes. She has several scrapbooks, in fact. She’s devout about clipping out all the lists and articles and photographs every weekend after Ned is done reading.”

“Good,” Sam breathes out. “And um, these clippings they go back quite a ways, don’t they?”

“Yes. The first ones were the ones about me, my sister and mother, and Old Nan. Ned and Detective Snow are forever keeping an eye out for old newspapers that have such. Pardon me if this is indelicate, but why are you asking about my daughter’s scrapbooks?”

“Could we talk please talk to her, Lady Stark? We’re trying to track down a highborn lady for a case, and it’d be helpful if we had a list of all of them and when they turned sixteen.”

“I suppose so,” Catelyn answers. “However, first, don’t you think it might be prudent to introduce me to this young woman, Constable Tarly? And explain what she’s doing with you? I’m fairly sure, if the police were hiring women officers, Detective Snow would have already told Arya.”

“Oh, right, I’m sorry. This is Gilly. Miss Gilly. She’s been valuable in helping us with the case involving slain women of the night. Miss Gilly, this is Lady Stark, Detective Snow’s stepmother.”

Gilly gives a clumsy curtsey.

“Come in,” Catelyn says. “May I offer either of you refreshments?”

They decline, and she leads them to Sansa’s room.

Inside, Sansa is working on her embroidery.

“Sansa, you need to give Constable Tarly your scrapbooks,” Catelyn says.

“Um,” Sam quickly says. “That’s-” Taking off his hat, he kneels down in front of Sansa’s chair. “Miss Sansa, you’re free to say no. I was wondering, though, if you’d be kind enough to let me borrow your scrapbooks. I promise I’d take very good care of them and give them back as soon as possible.”

“Why do you want my scrapbooks, Constable Tarly?”

He explains.

“Of course,” she says. “If there’s anyway I can help be of help in stopping the wretched monster hurting those poor women, I will.”

Going over to her desk, she retrieves several heavy, leather-bound scrapbooks.

Smiling, Sam says, “Thank you very much, Miss Sansa.”

“If Detective Snow had asked, I would have given them to him, too."

“Your brother doesn’t know about this, miss,” Gilly gently tells her. “He’s trying to find a witness right now. This was all Constable Tarly’s idea.”

Sansa studies Gilly, and more introductions are made.

…

“Lady Tarth, we’re not taking a-” He reminds himself not to curse. “One of those underwater machines.”

Hobb simply shrugs when Jon looks to him for assistance.

“Again, I remind you, Detective Snow, I am an unmarried woman in charge of a young boy’s care, currently unable to contact my father. The submarines must be signed out with the name of all the passengers and their designation before being released. Should our visit to your station be very long, when he returns and realises I’m not home, he’ll immediately check the docking baby, notice a submarine is not present, and check the logs. This will tell him where to start looking for Pod and I.”

“Lady Tarth, Hobb and I aren’t getting into an enclosed, underwater vechicle with an armed civilian.”

Pod doesn’t say anything, but Jon catches his eyes roving over Hobb’s firearm.

Lady Tarth, however, has no compunctions with pointing out, “He has a firearm. While I’ve never truly been around firearms, it seems the general consensus is that they are much more dangerous, faster, and effective than swords.”

…

Jon has learned two things: He hates submarines with a fiery passion, and those bizarre machines are almost supernaturally fast.

After leaving Lady Tarth and Pod in an interrogation room with Grenn sitting near the door outside, Jon goes down to find Gilly looking down at what he would swear was one of his half-sister’s scrapbooks, and nearby, Sam moves papers and occasionally jolts something down.

“This one has a ‘v’,” Gilly announces.

Coming over, Sam looks down. Smiling gently and touching her shoulder, Sam says, “She’s one of the dead ones. Good job."

“What’s going on,” Jon asks.

They both jump and look over.

“Constable Tarly told me that,” she makes what he’s assuming is the letter ‘v’ with her fingers rather than cursing at him, “means that they got shots like I did, and the ones that got shots are probably too young to be the prozzie slayer.”

Sam nods. “Yes. Oh, um, and I went to your father’s house and asked Miss Sansa if we could borrow her scrapbooks. I would have asked you, but-”

“If my stepmother let you, I’m sure that’s fine. Um, but why would a clipping about out ladies have their vaccination details?”

“I don’t know,” Sam answers. “Hopefully, I can find out soon. I think it might have been a way to subtly get the lower classes to start vaccinating.”

Before Sam can explain, Gilly says, “Here’s another one.”

Sam looks down. “One of the Lannisters. None of them would ever volunteer as a nurse, anyway, but all the same-” Going over to the table, he writes something.

…

Once the finger marking process is done, Brienne demands, “How can I possibly be one of your strongest suspects?” Finishing wiping her fingers, she passes the cloth down to where Pod is sitting pressed against her leg on the floor. “Until a few hours ago, neither Pod nor I knew anything about this slayer of prostitutes. More importantly than my knowledge or lack of, however, I live on an island that is approximately sixty miles away.”

Mormont shifts uneasily. “Lady Tarth, a tall, highborn lady wearing a bonnet and skilled in using a knife is who we believe is likely the culprit. With all due respect, you fit all of that.”

She glares heavily at him. “Very well,” she grits out. “Your harbour workers have control of my submarine, and if I find out it has been moved without my permission, I shall take action against them and this station. Send someone to the Isle, Inspector. Even without my father home, I’m confident there will be some evidence that can be found to clear my name. Until then, you may put Pod and I into a cell. Together. I ask that someone brings him food soon.”

…

In the cell, Pod tentatively tugs on Brienne’s trousers leg. “My lady?”

“There’s nothing to do but wait,” she announces.

“I’m sorry, my lady.”

Looking down, she stares at him in puzzlement before her eyes soften. “Pod, you did nothing wrong. Whoever sent this package, they could have chosen any delivery boy or girl. This is all about how unladylike they find me. They think just because I can wield a sword and hunt properly, I must hate my own sex and wish to hurt those who share it. That being unfeminine is the same as being cruel.”

“Sh-should we try J-Ja-Jaime Lan-Lannister?”

Brienne’s eyes darken, and her face twists. Looking towards the door, she hisses, “No!” Taking a breath, she slides down off the cot onto the floor. Somewhat urgently, she says, “Pod, we must never, ever use what we know again. I promise, you’ll be out soon, but even if these fools are to hang me, you must never tell. I would die for my father, your master, and his life is what would be in danger if we ever- Do you understand? Promise me.”

Briefly meeting her eyes, he nods. “I promise, my lady,” he softly says.

“Good.”

She leans against the cot, and he curls up against her.

…

During the night, Ygritte is patrolling the streets when she hears screaming.

Running, she sees a figure in a bonnet standing over a bleeding woman, and she shoots as she runs.

An arrow hits the standing woman square in the arm, but by the time Ygritte gets over, the other woman has disappeared into a dark alley.

Dropping down, Ygritte sees the faint movement in the young woman’s chest, drops her knife, sets her crossbow down, and tearing off strips of clothing and yanking the laces out of the boots, she orders, “Keep fighting, lassie.”

Spotting a whistle around the woman’s neck, she keeps one hand on the dressing and yanks at the chain with the other.

Wincing, the woman moans.

“Sorry,” Ygritte says. “Keep fighting.” Holding both hands over the wound, she begins blowing the whistle.


	6. Chapter 6

After almost two days without any sleep, Jon is ready to go home.

He’s just signed out when he hears yells of, “Qyburn!”

Going towards the noise, he sees Finn and Tuttle, and to his horror, he realises Finn is carrying a blood-covered woman.

…

If Jon thought his day couldn’t get any worse-

“No. Sir, with all due respect, Miss Giantsbane is a damn hero! She is not the prozzie slayer, but she is in danger, out there all alone with only her crossbow. We might have the prozzie slayer if those idiots hadn’t-”

“She shot at one of them!"

“He tried to bloody arrest her,” Jon snaps back. “Qyburn himself says that that girl is alive through a combination of Ygritte’s quick actions and pure luck.”

Mormont gives him a pointed look. “Ygritte, is it?"

Ignoring this, Jon continues, “I’ve been shot at by Mr Giantsbane, and I’ve seen her hunt. They’re both lucky she decided she didn’t want to actually hit them with that arrow.”

“She was found kneeling next to a bleeding woman with a knife in the blood and a crossbow within reach.”

“A hunting knife. Qyburn’s said that all the victims were killed with a thin scalpel knife. And this woman she was kneeling by had clothing from Miss Giantsbane's own body and the laces from her boots wrapped around the wound. She was blowing a whistle for feck’s sake! What, she decides after five women and possibly one man that she’ll rip off her pieces of her clothes, use the laces from her boots to secure them, and sit there blowing a whistle until someone comes? Then, when these idiots try to arrest her, she’ll shoot her crossbow **once** , and then, run? Crossbow beats knife, sir, and I promise you, if she had two arrows and wanted them dead, they would be dead.”

Sighing, Mormont sits down. “You might have a point.”

“Might?”

“Don’t push it. At least, we know for sure Lady Tarth isn’t the prozzie slayer. Of course, once her father hears about this- but everything as it comes. Go home, Snow, and if you happen to come across Miss Giantsbane- Do the right thing.”

“I will,” Jon coldly replies.

…

Reaching out to stop Pod, she asks their escorting officer, “Why, is there blood on the floor?”

“Ah, my lady, please, pay that no mind,” Qyburn says. Helping Pod walk around, he shows her a phial. “This solution will help clean it in no time. A young, would be victim of the slayer of prostitutes was brought here.”

“Yes, I’m aware. Seeing as how my squire and I were in a cell talking to an officer when it happened due to a suspicion I might have been responsible. Despite the fact my home is on an island somewhere along the lines of sixty miles away. Why was this woman brought here instead of a hospital?”

Qyburn gives her an appraising look. “I confess I’d normally have no issue with bragging, my lady, about my superior skill to most doctors, but in this case, I suspect it was more that the officers were afraid she might be turned away. Hospitals, after all, our under no obligation to accept any patient that comes to them.”

She frowns. “A sad truth. How is she doing- am I to assume you’re a doctor?”

“Yes, my lady.” He bows his head. “Qyburn.”

Pod glances up.

“Clever lad,” Qyburn comments. “Yes, I am a bastard without even a seasonal surname, little one. It’s rare, but sometimes, those with no name, no money, and almost nothing else can be clever enough or have some other desirable skill that forces others to let them rise.”

"He meant no offence,” Brienne says with a nudge at Pod. “How is the woman, doctor?”

“I have high hopes she will survive. She gained consciousness long enough to identify herself as Daisy and make it clear it was a woman who attacked her. However, her survival will not be an easy one. Replenishing so much lost blood by oneself is incredibly stressful and taxing on the body. It’s a shame our blood types are incompatible, or I could greatly improve her chances.”

Brienne gives him a questioning look.

“Ah, forgive me. There is a way, my lady, to take blood out of a healthy person without harming them and put it in a sick or wounded person, and this will often greatly help the patient. However, it can’t just be any healthy person. Different people’s blood have differences to them, and the wrong combination of two different blood types could cause a fatal reaction in the patient.”

“Can you safely test which types of blood from people are compatible?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Leave this blood for now, and take me wherever it is best for you to do the test.”

“My lady- When I said without harm, I meant- there is some pain involved, and sometimes, headaches and temporary unsteadiness of movements.”

“I routinely swordfight and spar against men. If I can help this woman recover faster and more easily, I can handle a headache and being a bit unsteady on my feet.”

“Well, if you’re sure, this way, please.”

…

At the morgue, Qyburn waves a bobby standing outside the door away. “It’s not likely the woman would know Miss Daisy was taken here, and even with her crimes, her coming into a police station to finish the job is unlikely, but better safe than sorry, yes?”

Brienne is more concerned about Pod seeing dead bodies. He has seen them before and never given any reaction, but Pod barely reacts to anything. He’s often nervous when he has to talk, but he can witness violence, endure pain, and be deprived of things without showing any hint of being bothered.

He must be by some of it, she often thinks.

Thankfully, she sees there are no dead bodies, and taking in the warm room, she notices how clean it is. Then, she jumps when sees the young woman lying on a table near the fireplace.

Dreadfully pale and breathing so shallowly, she could be mistaken for a dead body. A white sheet has been wrapped around her torso and ends just past where her private region is covered. Almost the entirety of her lower left arm has been wrapped with white linen, and Brienne thinks she can vaguely make out black underneath the white. Resting atop a white pillow, her head has been wrapped in a thick, white scarf, and Brienne notices a towel containing a bundle of blondish locks sitting on a counter. In addition, aside from her eyebrows, it seems the woman has no hair on her legs, arms, or underneath them.

“Her hair was cut?”

Over by the sink, Qyburn dries his hands. “If you and your squire would please wash your hands, my lady.”

She begins to wash Pod’s.

“Shorn, my lady, as close to the scalp and skin as I could,” he answers. “It would take too long to do a thorough search for lice and remove them if any were found. I rubbed her down warm water and mild soap afterwards. Lice consume blood, my lady, and in the circumstances, every single drop is vital. Hair will grow back, and while people suffering blood loss are also much more vulnerable to the cold, it’s much easier to keep them warm via their environment and layers than it is to deal with losing any. Even a drop or two could mean the difference between life and death.”

“And you’ve wrapped her in white so that, hopefully, you can quickly see if any covered area begins to bleed,” she realises aloud.

“Yes, my lady.”

She finishes drying her hands, and he gestures them to a stool. Sitting down, she lifts Pod up and sets him on a nearby cot.

From an icebox, Qyburn withdraws a glass of what looks to be orange juice with a chunk of chocolate in it. Going over to Daisy, he digs the tip of his finger into the juice, opens her mouth, and lets the juice fall from his fingertip into her mouth. Closing her mouth, he tilts her head and gently runs his fingers over her throat.

After putting the glass back and washing his hands yet again, Qyburn comes over. “To test your blood, I need to prick one of your fingers. Just a small one, I promise. Being highborn, I assume you can write? If you’d give me the hand you don’t write with, please.”

Giving him her left hand, she doesn’t flinch when he presses a small ball of cotton against her pinkie finger and slides a knife with a pointed tip through it. “Thank you, my lady.” Removing the blood-soaked cotton, he hands her a clean one. “If you’ll press this for a minute or two, it should close up and disappear in a few days.”

Pod holds his left hand out, too, but Brienne grabs his wrist and moves it back to the gurney. “No, Pod. If I’m not a match for Miss Daisy, I’ll help Dr Qyburn find someone who is, but safe or not, until much more is known about this relocating blood, the idea of removing blood from still growing children doesn’t sit right with me.”

Qyburn takes the bloody cotton over, opens a drawer, and withdraws a bloody strip of cloth. “A sensible reaction. Now, my lady, if you don’t mind some slightly indelicate questions about your health-”

“I haven’t gotten truly sick in years,” she says. “I had a cold last Christmas, but it was mild and didn’t last long.”

“Good.” Looking at the cloth and cotton under a microscope, he tips a phial over one of them. “Now, you’re obviously old enough to be out. If you have an understanding with any young men, are they all healthy?”

“There’s no need to be delicate. I’m a virgin. My father and another family had an agreement, but once I turned sixteen, I broke it. He and I never even shook hands.”

“And how old are you, now?”

“Twenty.”

Coming back over, he says, “You and Miss Daisy have different blood types, but these two work well together.

“Take what you need for her, then.”

“I just want to make sure you completely understand, while this is safe, when I said without harm, I-”

“Yes, I might have a headache and be unsteady in my movements.”

“Not only this, you might be tired and achy for several days.”

“I understand. Now, you’ve said every drop of blood is vital. Stop waiting time, doctor, and get these vital drops into her.”

He bows his head.

Bringing over several syringes, more tiny balls of cotton, and bottle of vodka, he explains, “I’m going to clean the arm I take from with alcohol. It’s even better than soap at ensuring no infections develop. Your left arm, please.” He arranges it. “Now, while I do this, if you could try to squeeze your hand opened and closed.”

Sliding down, Pod begins to move her fingers and press at them.

…

“That’s all I can safely take for now, my lady.”

Looking over, Brienne thinks Miss Daisy looks a little less pale and is breathing a bit more evenly and deeply.

“Do you like orange juice,” Qyburn asks.

“I don’t dislike it. I prefer a mixture of hot tea and cold coffee.”

Chuckling, Qyburn withdraws a badge from his pocket and hands it to Pod. “For now, go up to the canteen and get your mistress some orange juice and sweets, lad. If they ask for payment, show them this and tell them I said they’re free to call me. I’ve found orange juice and sugar help speed the body’s process of replenishing blood.”

At Brienne’s nod, Pod bows and leaves.

…

Just out of town, Tormund owns several acres of land. It’s inhabitants are mostly young, outcast women who agree with Ygritte’s views, Irish immigrants who face discrimination elsewhere, and various non-Christians. Due to her fierce disagreement with circumcision being done to babies, Ygritte gets spitting mad whenever Tormund allows anyone Jewish to take residence, but part of her championing has involved Jewish causes and people in the past. Tormund is a Protestant who doesn’t attend church, and Jon has heard and seen enough to realise Ygritte herself isn’t a Christian.

She and him have a silent agreement not to talk about him being Catholic and her being whatever she is.

The idea she doesn’t believe in any God at all- It’s best not to go there, he reminds himself.

As he walks through the land, he feels eyes and weapons aimed at him but sees no people.

Before he can get to Ygritte’s cave, Tormund appears. “Brave, coming here without your uniform.”

“Even if I wore it, if you were going to kill me, you’d just burn it and chuck my badge where no one would ever find it,” he points out. “I swear to you, this had nothing to do with me. I was dealing with a witness I’d brought down from the Sapphire Isle.” Breathing out, he says, “She must have made it back for you to be on-guard like this. Is she still- Please, I just want to know if she’s alright, Tormund.”

He _needs_ to.

Tormund sighs. “She didn’t make it back without some scratches, but nothing that’ll keep her down for long. You can see her in a minute.” Stepping closer, Tormund peers into his eyes, and he stops himself from flinching and looking away.

“My gel thinks nothing weak can ever bring her down. In many ways, she’s right. What she doesn’t understand and I hope she never will is that even the strongest can find themselves attached to the wrong person, and that can do unspeakable damage. I like you, boy, but I swear to you, if my daughter is ever forever lost or broken because of you, I won’t just go after you. I will take everyone you share blood with, and I won’t care how old or young they are.”

He’s unnerved by the fact Tormund truly would try to hurt children, his young, innocent siblings, especially, but he pushes it aside. “You know how I feel about her.”

“Aye, I do. I’m not sure you do, though, and I know she doesn’t see it. Funny how breaking a person’s trust can make them blind to sincere changes in your feelings towards them.”

Knowing he deserves the remark, Jon feels the accompanying regret and shame.

Scoffing, Tormund says, “Yeah. The day she regains that trust, you don’t need to worry for your family, but you come around here, you better be prepared to run. My simple bow and arrow isn’t as fast as her crossbows, but I’ve proven I can still hit a moving target easily. Several times.”

“The warning for when I’m going to need an umbrella has come in handy,” Jon responds.

Laughing, Tormund puts an arm around his shoulders and leads him to the cave.

“How is she, really?”

“Like I said, she didn’t make it back unscathed. She couldn’t really run in her lace-less boots, and she had to stick to dark alleys and streets. We’ve washed her down with boiled water mixed with whiskey and dressed most of the cuts. Her ankle was hurt, but we don’t think it’s broken.”

“Why not just whiskey? She can handle that.”

“According to the medicine woman, this way should help to keep any scarring down.”

The cave has mounted torches throughout and hanging lamps. Down at the bottom of it is a natural hot spring, and after about a year of Ygritte sleeping on furs down beside it, Tormund had a bed moved down for her.

Jon’s steps briefly falter.

Ygritte had told him all sorts of things about this cave and how, at only six, she’d claimed it as her own. Then, once and only once, she’d taken him down inside. It was where they had first-

Brushing the regret and uneasiness away, he continues.

He hears her before he sees her, “I’ve walked on worse!”

Letting the irritation flow through, he orders, “You’re staying put, like you should have done at the post office.”

Startled eyes pierce him, the people sitting around pick up or place their hands on their weapons, and his nerves stay mostly steady at seeing the linen wrapped on and over her hands, legs, and one on her left arm. There’s several scratches on her face, and her right foot has been tightly wrapped.

Moving past, he kneels next to the bed and plays with the hem of her nightdress. “Why did- I thought the post office was important.”

“It is.” She tugs at his curls. “‘Oh, I’m a great copper who made detective after only two years, but this woman I’ve thrown in jail before, I don’t listen when she says someone else could take her place in her illegal activities that I saw her committing. Why didn’t I stop her, then? Well, I didn’t like the fact she was taking legal walks ‘round at night, so, I thought I’d just go against my all mighty oath of truth, justice, and chucking anyone trying to make a difference and fight for those two in jail. Chained up, anyways, she was, so-’” She shrugs.

Ygritte usually has an uncanny ability to mimic people, him especially, but tonight, it’s a bit off and not exactly as clever as usual, but he’s so relieved her spirit and humour is still intact, he grins.

“What about the lassie?”

Half-laughing, he says, “You saved her.” Kissing her hand, he adds, “Qyburn’s taking care of her, now.”

“Good.”

“Is there anything you can tell me about the person who hurt her?”

“I shot her in the arm,” she announces.

Tormund’s wrong. Jon knows exactly how he feels about her.

“Of course you did. Can you give me a description?”

“Tall with her hair covered is the best I can make out.” She bites her lip.

“Ygritte?”

“Be careful, Jon Snow. I didn’t get a look at her face, but the way she stood- Weak what she’s doing, but she’s strong. She doesn’t have any fear. When I hit her, she didn’t cry out in pain, and I can’t say if she even flinched. I don’t think- I was standing in the light, and she could see the knife and crossbow. I don’t think she would have run if I’d just had my knife.”

Sickness overtakes him, and he lowers his head and closes his eyes.

He jumps at a hand on his shoulder.

“I promise ya, lad, this one **will** be staying for now. Best thing you can do is find this woman before she hurts anyone else, make it clear my daughter ain’t her. Go on.”

Raising his head, Jon nods, and avoiding the cuts on her face, he gently kisses her. “I’m coming back to see ya soon, yeah?”

Smiling, she nods. “Yeah.”

…

At the station, Jon slips down into the basement and feels fond exasperation.

Sam doesn’t have trouble sleeping per se, he can fall asleep easily, but he doesn’t sleep much. He used to stay all night almost every night in the basement working, and when he does sleep, he doesn’t sleep for long. Unlike Jon, a ringing clock would be lost on him.

Gilly, however, is clearly fighting hard against nodding off in her chair, and Jon wonders exactly how long she’s been around. Surely, that Mother Unella (or was she just a sister?) is wondering where she is.

“Oh, hello, Jon,” Sam absently greets, and Gilly snaps her head up.

“Miss Giantsbane will be fine, but since this station is filled with idiots, I need you to tell Mormont you got an anonymous tip. She shot and hit one of her arms. I’m not sure if a highborn lady would go to a hospital, but assuming she has a family, she’d try to find a doctor, at least-”

Pausing, he realises they have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about. “How long have you two been down here? Didn’t you hear the shouting earlier?”

They both shake their heads.

“God grant me strength!” Taking a breath, he explains.

…

Lord Selwyn Tarth arrives, and while he, Mormont, and Brienne are talking in Mormont’s office, Pod leaves his chair outside of the office and heads to the morgue.

“Ah, hello, again,” Qyburn greets.

Pod bows.

“Does you mistress require something else?”

Shaking his head, Pod looks over at the microscope.

Coming over, Qyburn kneels down. “You want to see if your blood and Lady Tarth’s are compatible.”

Refusing to look at him, Pod gives a small nod.

“That’s easily done. Climb up onto the table, lad.”

Complying, Pod holds out his left hand.

Taking a sample, Qyburn goes to compare Pod’s ball of cotton with Brienne’s. After a moment, he says, “Well, good and bad news, I suppose. If you ever need blood, she can give it to you, but if she ever needs it, you can’t give it to her.”

“Th-thank you,” Pod quietly says.

Giving him a small smile, Qyburn nods. “I need to go get something, lad. Stay with Miss Daisy while I do.”

Pod bows his head.

…

In the canteen, Gilly tells one of the stewards, “Constable Tarly needs some porridge, please.”

Wordlessly pouring a bowl, he hands her a cup of coffee.

Trying her best, she curtseys. “Thank you.”

Navigating her way through the station, she finds herself bumping into someone and watches in despair as the bowl and cup break on the floor. “I’m sorry, ma’am!”

She hurriedly drops down to clean at it with her dress and gather the pieces together. Looking up, she sees the mayor's wife, Mrs Baratheon. She'd been in one of Miss Sansa's scrapbooks as Miss Florent, and Constable Tarly had talked how she'd been at a nunnery or convent, preparing to take the veil, during the civil war. Soon after it ended, she decided against taking the veil and married Mr Baratheon.

Above her, Mrs Baratheon’s eyes are roaming the station. “It was clearly an accident. Do you know where the morgue is? I believe my husband is there and needs something.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am, it’s-” Gilly pauses. “It’s by the gentleman’s- where they make water. Excuse me.”

Jumping up, she runs.

She can’t be sure, but from where she was on the floor, it looked as if there was blood at the hem of the wrist of Mrs Baratheon’s dress and as if the left shoulder of her dress had been expertly mended with a slightly different shade.

Bursting into the morgue, she finds a highborn boy sitting with his wrist pressed against the still sleeping Miss Daisy’s.

Frantically, Gilly bops and orders, “Hide!”

Going over to the large drawer where Miss Ros was put, Gilly opens it, quickly moves all the parts of Miss Ros out onto a table, goes over, and steeling herself, half-lifts and half-drags Miss Daisy, and manages to heave her up inside and shut the drawer. Seeing the boy is staring with alarmed eyes, she snaps, “I told you to run. Now!”

The door opens.

“I suppose you know who I am,” Mrs Baratheon states.

Gilly swallows. “Yes. But he doesn’t. Little one, run, and don’t stop until you find a bobby.”

He looks between them.

“Where is the girl?”

“Let the boy go, and I’ll tell you.”

Mrs Baratheon shakes her head. “No.”

Slipping her hand into her pocket, Gilly feels her rosary against her fingertips, blinks away her tears, and charges. “Run,” she insists again.

There’s a knife against neck, a prick in her skin, and the last thing she sees before losing the battle against sleep is the boy being grabbed.

 …

Brienne looks around. “Pod? Podrick?”

Qyburn appears. “He’s in the morgue, my lady, watching Miss Daisy. Shall I send him to you?”

“I’ll come get him. Thank you."

They get to the morgue, and taking in the scene, Qyburn immediately goes for the telephone. “My patient, Miss Daisy, is missing, and someone’s clearly broken in. I need an officer immediately.”

“Where’s Pod,” Brienne panickedly inquires. “Podrick!”

Suddenly, both freeze at the weak, pitiful sound of, “H’llo,” coming from the body containment drawer.

Qyburn opens it to find a blearily-eyed Daisy blinking up at him.     


	7. Chapter 7

Pyp comes down the stairs. “Sam, you need to do something about that urchin girl. When she was getting your porridge, she knocked into Mrs Baratheon and ran off without even bothering to finish cleaning up the mess.”

“I didn’t send her to get any porridge,” Sam protests.

“She probably went while we were in the lav,” Jon says. “We’ll handle it, Pyp. D’ya know where she was headed?”

“The steward says it looked like she was running to the morgue.”

Suddenly, Jon feels a chill go through him.

…

Stumbling, Jon quickly looks at the ceiling.

This isn’t Ros, he reminds himself.

“Yes, I’m sorry, Detective,” Qyburn says. “Someone emptied Miss Ros’s parts and put Miss Daisy in her place. Until the remains are thoroughly examined for finger markings, they need to stay out. Thankfully, however, Miss Daisy is still recovering.”

“Yes, and I’m glad, but none of you are doing anything! Let me go, so I-”

Jon looks over to see distraught-looking Lady Tarth being blocked by a tired-faced Mormont.

“Lady Tarth, please, we don’t know that your servant didn’t just run off-”

“Podrick wouldn’t have willingly left Miss Daisy alone, and never mind whether he would or wouldn’t place her in the container, he _couldn’t_. He’s short for his age and not even a hundred pounds.” Letting out a frustrated sigh, she effortlessly pushes Mormont aside and is out the door before Jon can even try to stop her.

“I thought you had one of us standing guard outside,” Jon helplessly points out.

“I was.” Giving a bitter chuckle, Qyburn says, “A mistake, no doubt, but the boy was perfectly capable of alerting me if Miss Daisy suddenly started experiencing medical complications. I only planned to be gone for five minutes or so.”

“Logical, given the circumstances,” Mormont gruffly offers. “No one is blaming you or the boy.”

Taking a deep breath, Jon forces himself to voice the brewing suspicions. “Has anyone seen Miss Gilly? Based on what I’ve pieced together, she likely put Miss Daisy in the body containment drawer. But I don’t know if she’d’ve taken the boy or why.”

“Do you think she could be the slayer?”

Realising he’s going to regret this, Jon still lets himself explode, “For God’s sake, Inspector Mormont, this isn’t helping any of us! The slayer is a highborn lady who has aroused no suspicion in anyone. She’s not a fiery ginger wearing bloomers and carrying a hunting knife and crossbow, a woman- of unusual stature who lives on an island, or a raggedy Sally girl!”

Quieter, he adds, “And I admit, I’m at fault for Lady Tarth and her boy being here.”

“No,” Mormont says. “She’s a highborn lady wearing a bonnet who’s admitted that she knows how to kill with a knife. The other ways she’s unique have nothing to do with any of this. Otherwise, though, you might have a point. God, this was so much easier when we were looking for a man.”

There’s a knock on the door, and Sam sticks his head in. Blanching and quickly looking away from the body parts, he asks, “Have you found Miss Gilly, Jon?”

“No,” Jon answers. “Let’s go to the canteen, yeah? I need-”

“Someone hand me a clean towel or some gloves,” Qyburn demands. “I’ve found a rosary. It could be the slayer’s or whoever else might have take young Podrick.”

Jon owes a lot to Sam’s intelligence, and beyond this, he’s dead proud of his friend’s cleverness, but there are times he wishes Sam weren’t so quick-witted. He can see the ideas coming together in Sam’s head.

“Oh, no,” Sam mutters.

He sways, and Jon quickly guides him to Qyburn’s desk. “We don’t know much of anything, yet, Sam.”

“Bring it here, please,” Sam insists.

“That-”

Before he can properly protest, Qyburn has.

“That’s Gilly’s,” Sam dully informs the room.

“Inspector Mormont, if you could get Constable Pypar, please. I’ll begin examining this. The Magdalene asylum will need to be contacted, as well. If they’re willing to supply finger marks, we can, hopefully, rule them out from the potential killer.”

As everyone is bustling around, Jon kneels down. “Hey. Sam-”

Sam looks at him with helpless eyes. “I don’t know what to do, Jon. This- this isn’t something you can read or write about or organise files on. She’s about the same age as Talla, and-” He wipes at his tear-filled eyes. “I didn’t think her helping me in the basement- Please, isn’t there anything I can do?”

“Sam, we’ll find her,” Jon promises. “This isn’t your fault. It’s not hers, either, even. Miss Gilly might be young and uneducated, but she was _right_ , we know she was, now, and she didn’t give up. She wanted to help.”

“And now, she might be dead for it,” Sam emptily responds.

Qyburn comes over. “Constable Tarly, it’s unlikely she’s dead. There’s no blood residue on the floor or any of the surfaces we’ve tried so far. In addition, getting a dead child out might be easily done, if a person is clever or just plain lucky, but a fully grown woman- It’s unlikely. Detective, I need my desk. Take Constable Tarly to the canteen.”

“If I can help, I will,” Sam protests.

As sympathetically as he can manage, Jon says, “Right now, you can’t."

He’s aware it might not be much.

Everything aches, through the aching is sluggishness, and he wishes he knew what _he_ could do.

They get to the canteen, and he pauses at the sight of Tyrion Lannister talking to Lady Tarth. Standing nearby and lounging against a wall is Jaime Lannister.

Taking deep breaths, he forces himself to keep guiding Sam.

When he was seventeen, a Lannister carriage veered into his father’s yard and hit his younger brother, Bran. Jaime Lannister had been driving it with his sister, Lady Cersei Baratheon, riding as a passenger. Jon’s never blamed her, but the arrogant, uncaring way Lannister reacted- In addition, Jon’s always suspected Lannister was drunk or under the influence of opiates.

It’s not illegal to drive a carriage while not sober, but most decent or just intelligent people don’t.

Bran used to love to climb and ride horses, and he happily ran and played almost every day. Now, thanks to Tyrion Lannister, he can still ride and, to some extent, get around, but he’s permanently crippled. He’ll never walk, and given the fact the injury affected him most below the waist, Jon, Robb, their father, and Lady Stark are all privately worried, if he does get married, he might not be able to properly be with a wife and have children of his own.

Jon will say this: Tyrion Lannister has the most decency out of the Lannister family.

Jaime Lannister crippled a young boy and showed no remorse, his sister had kind enough words, their father, Tywin Lannister, blamed Bran himself, and Tyrion Lannister had a special, movable chair shipped from overseas and designed and commissioned the making of a saddle especially for Bran. He insisted on paying for the medical bills, too.

Once he’s gotten Sam sat down, Jon tells him, “I’m going to get us some coffee, yeah? Sam, listen, the best thing you can do is just stay, alright?”

Sam nods. “I will.”

Going over to Lady Tarth and Lord Tyrion, Jon sees Lord Tyrion is holding her hand. Firmly ignoring the unwelcome Lannister, he greets, “My lord.”

Lord Tyrion nods. “Detective Snow. I only just heard about Ros today. However, more pressing at the moment is Podrick being missing. Is there anything I can do?”

“Or me,” Lannister drawls. “After all, I’m sure you’re just as broken up as Lady Tarth here, Detective Snow. I’d offer her my help, but-”

Jon sincerely appreciates the venom-filled look Lady Tarth shoots Lannister. “Why are you even here? It’s not for your brother’s sake, I know. As for me, I want nothing from you, Lord Lannister. I never have, and I never will. Anything I took in the past-”

“Jamie,” Lord Tyrion interrupts.

Shrugging, Lannister ruffles his brother’s hair and, then, thankfully, wanders away.

After looking over to make sure Sam is still there, Jon shakes his head. “I don’t think so, my lord. You know the boy?”

“Yes. Pod was originally my servant before he became Lady Tarth’s.” To her, he softly says, “Brienne, we both know he’s cleverer and stronger than he lets on. You must let these men do their jobs and not put yourself in needless danger.”

“They’re not doing anything!”

“Ma’am, yes, we are,” Jon interjects. He explains some of what’s being done. “Unfortunately, I can’t do much at the moment, but the second I can, I swear, I will. No one wants anymore victims, especially not ones as young as your servant.”

Or Miss Gilly, kind, young, clever Gilly, who’s only a few years older than his half-sister and is liked by both Sam and Ygritte, he thinks. Please, God, spare her and the boy.

…

In the Baratheon lake house, Selyse looks between the chained up boy and the unconscious Gilly. Smoothing her unruly hair, she kneels down near him. “I’m sorry, child. What I’ve done, I was doing God’s work. He will reward me when this is all done. I just wasn’t as careful. Do- do you understand any of this?”

He looks past her.

Sighing, she stands and reflects there’s probably only one other mortal who truly can. “Best to close your eyes, little one.”

Withdrawing her sewing kit from her dress, she takes out the scalpel and starts to approach the bed.

Gilly’s eyes flutter open and closed. “Please,” she weakly mumbles. “I have a baby.”

Pausing, Selyse hears Gilly continue, “Sam’s son.”

Moving closer, she asks, “Constable Tarly?”

She shakes at the unconscious Gilly, but aside from some fearful moans, Gilly gives no further response.

“I’ll- I’ll be back soon.” Selyse practically stumbles out of the room.

…

The lock clicks, and Podrick lowers the pocketknife he was about to throw and starts working on the chains with the hairpins he slipped out of Lady Baratheon’s hair.

Soon, the chains are undone, and he looks around the room. Going over to the large window, he sees they’re directly above a lake. Looking back, he stares at the woman for a long moment.

Going over to the bed, he begins to wrap her with the sheets until every part of her from the neck down resembles a floral-coloured mummy. Quiet huffs and puffs fill the room as he drags her over to the window. Opening it, he looks down for a moment, takes a shaky breath, and manages to maneuverer her body into a half-sitting position on the still. Briefly closing his eyes, he pushes.

There’s a splash, and he looks down to see, though she’s rapidly sinking, she did hit the water.

He dives in, gets her afloat, and taking in the shallow breathing, he wraps his arms as much as he can around her and, thankful Lady Brienne taught him both how to swim without his feet and without his arms and hands, starts swimming.

Usually, he’d get close to land and follow it, but the only land is near the lake house.

My mistress is Lady Brienne of Tarth, he thinks. Tarth was once an island with the sea all around it. People say water runs through Lady Brienne. She says, different from fighting, no one can ever completely best it, but she’s the closest I’ve ever seen to someone who could. I know, in my heart, she’d want this woman to be alright. In the name of my mistress, please, help me get her somewhere safe. Take me, if you need or want someone dead. But please, don’t kill her, and don’t let her die right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: Soft water (http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/SoftWater) is not in play here. If Gilly survives, she will have serious injuries. The fact the fall didn't immediately kill her is lucky, but it's not majorly unrealistic. Pod has been taught how to properly dive, and the distance from the lake house to the lake is short enough he was able to safely do so. If he survives, he won't have any major injuries. However, when it comes to a small boy being able to hold up a tightly wrapped, unconscious adult for any amount of time, I have no idea how realistic/unrealistic it is, and I freely invoke artistic license if it falls into the latter category.


	8. Chapter 8

“Tarly-”

“Sir,” Jon quietly says.

Mormont sighs. “You think this is helping, Snow?”

Jon looks down the stairs. Sam is muttering to himself, scurrying about, and constantly writing, rearranging papers, and flipping pages in Sansa’s scrapbooks.

“I think he’s safer down here than he would be out there and less likely to get in anyone’s way,” is Jon’s even quieter response.

After a few seconds, Mormont lets out another sigh. “Fair enough.”

Pyp comes over. “He’s taking this hard, eh? Best he not be the one to apologise to Mrs Baratheon.”

Something niggles in Jon’s mind, and he grabs Pyp before Pyp can leave. “Where is Mrs Baratheon, Pyp?”

“I haven’t seen her. Reckon she went home to change her dress?”

“Maybe,” Jon mutters.

A surely insane idea is taking root.

Going down, he stops Sam. “Sam, did you and Gilly get around to Mrs Baratheon, the mayor’s wife, yet?”

“What? Oh, yes. She was at a convent during the civil war.”

“Which convent?”

Sam tells him. “Why? The Pope specifically forbade Westerosi nuns and priests from taking part in it.”

“Oh, no,” Mormont says. “Snow, I swear, if you’re about to suggest our mayor-”

“All I’m suggesting right now is that we find Mayor and Mrs Baratheon.”

Sounding utterly resigned, Mormont asks, “And if we can’t find the latter?”

“We need to find out more about this convent.”

…

Gendry is fetching some water from the lake when he finds himself staring at something in the distance.

As a rule, Gendry never has more than a one cup of ale during breakfast and lunch on days he’s working and, unlike many around the area, he never touches opium. Therefore, while he’s not sure exactly what he is seeing, he knows he is seeing it.

For a stretch of time, he stands and watches, and eventually, a flower-covered mummy comes into sight.

Not a jumper, then, he decides.

Already having spent too much time from the forge, he considers letting the dead body keep floating. Though he’d never go out of his way to disturb a body or a grave, he’s never been one who holds much stock in respecting the dead. If he had a grievance with a person when they were alive, he doesn’t see why them being dead should mean he doesn’t ever speak of it again.

Then, he notices something, or more accurately, someone wrapped around the mummy. It’s a small child, he sees, and he or she is sluggishly kicking and just barely managing to stay above water. Alive.

“Oi! Hello?”

The child meets his eyes.

He suddenly, desperately wishes he knew how to swim.

“Come over here,” he calls.

Frantically looking around, he sees a nearby rowboat and some oars.

Grabbing one, he extends it out. “Grab it,” he orders. “And I’ll get her, next.”

The child (a boy, he sees) does, and Gendry lifts him out. Depositing him on the ground, Gendry uses the oar to push the woman close enough he can lean down in and pick her up.

Shivering at the onslaught of cold wetness, he shifts under the heavy weight in his arms and notices how the boy is barely standing on literally shaking legs. “I’m Gendry. Here, climb onto my back.” Managing to squat down, he soon feels even more cold wetness plastering over him followed by tentative arms and legs wrapped around his neck and shoulders.

Thankfully, the forage is near, and he gets the two deposited into his master’s office in front of the fireplace. “Start with your name and hers, lad.”

He looks around for- he’s not sure what, but he can’t just leave an unconscious, soaked woman lying on the hard ground in her wet bedsheet.

“I’m P-Podrick Pa-Payne, sir,” is the meek reply. “I-I d-don’t know h-hers. My mistress lives on the Sa-Sapphire Island. Some-somone’s been killing ladies of the night? A woman took us from the police st-station, and sh-she wanted to kill h-her.”

“The woman who took you both wanted to kill the mummy?”

In the corner of his eye, Gendry sees Pod nod.

Finally finding an old stable blanket, Gendry asks, “Do you happen to know what station?”

“Wall-Wall-” Pod takes a breath. “Wallington, sir.”

“Alright, Pod.” He kneels down. “This woman needs to get out of her wet sheet and whatever’s under it. I’d rather not have to defend myself for undressing an unconscious woman. Can you to do it and get her wrapped in this?”

Pod nods.

“Good lad. There’s a telephone at the nearby bus station. I’m going to call Wallington.”

“Lady Brienne of Tarth,” Pod suddenly says. “My mistress.”

“I’ll ask about her, too,” Gendry promises.

…

Jon isn’t exactly sure how he’s ended up kneeling down in a Maggie house with a large group of women, some children, and several nuns, but he’s gotten all the information he possibly can about the convent Mrs Baratheon stayed at, and earlier, Qyburn had given Sam a calming potion and had him sent home.

Old Nan used to tell stories about life before Christianity reached Westeros and how their ancestors worshiped the seven-faced god, gods of forests, and so on. In fact, there’s a wooded area on his father’s estate, and it contains a tree with a face carved into it. A heart tree, Old Nan’s always called it.

Jon knows, if he weren’t in this Maggie house, he’d probably be braving his stepmother’s disdain to sit with it right now.

Better these women who love and miss Gilly than that, he thinks.

“Lord above, we beseech thee, return our sister safe and whole to us. In your name and the name of your only beloved son, we pray. Amen.”

Crossing himself, he echoes, “Amen.”

The nun begins reading another Bible passage when the door opens, and Septa Unella strides over. “Inspector Mormont is calling for you, Detective Snow. Everyone else, stay, and continue praying for our Gilly.”

…

In the morgue, Mormont announces, “Flea bottom.” Rubbing his head, he says, “We’re going to have raid all our petty funds and, possibly, get Varys with his fancy legal talk to get an airship.”

“I’ll pay for it,” Tyrion says.

“Thank you, my lord. Once Snow gets here, we’ll head to the airship holding centre.”

Brienne drinks some orange juice, and as Qyburn is wrapping the crease in her arm, she says, “The harbour is closer. Lord Tyrion, I, and two officers should leave enough room for Pod and Miss Gilly.”

“One officer and you,” Mormont tells Qyburn. “And thank you, my lady.”

…

After Snow, Lord Tyrion, Qyburn, and Lady Brienne leave (after the latter had to be stopped from beating Lord Jaime Lannister to death in the middle of the station), Mormont foolishly thinks he might get more than five minutes of relative peace.

He’s sure he once knew peace in his life.

Instead, Mayor Baratheon pops up. “Inspector Mormont, I was told there was an incident with my wife earlier? Is she well? Did she go to Lady Cersei’s hotel?”

Mormont likes Snow well enough, but there are times-

Lady Baratheon’s convent openly defied the Pope and aided in the war effort. Until Miss Gilly and young Payne can give their statements, nothing more about the prozzie slayer is known or unknown. Mrs Baratheon is among the number of women who volunteered as nurses during the war, and her owning and wearing a crucifix necklace and possibly a bonnet could mean nothing. Tall, bonnet-wearing Lady Brienne was quickly proven innocent, after all.

Yet, there is enough evidence she is a tentative suspect, and he gets to be the one to tell the mayor this.

…

From the gurney he’s lying on, Jon hears the morgue door opening.

Sitting up, he sees Qyurn and the others have arrived, and Pyp is carrying Miss Gilly.

“Miss Daisy fully woke up. Grenn carried her to the canteen and is sitting with her while she eats,” he tells them. 

Then, he notices Miss Gilly has a dirty blanket wrapped around her and nothing else.

Before he can ask, Lady Brienne says, “Pod made his and her escape by water. A forger's apprentice got them out and had Podrick get her out of her wet clothes while he went to call us.”

“The inspector sent Hobb to the dock,” Pyp adds. “The first sheet the boy wrapped her in and her dress and shoes are still in the underwater machine.”

Jon focuses on Qyburn and Miss Gilly.

“I’m concerned about a concussion. Brain injury,” Qyburn mutters. “Otherwise- Bruised ribs, several sprains, no water inhalation. From what I can deduce, she isn’t in danger of an allergic reaction to whatever drugs were administered. If she wakes soon, there’s a good chance. However, even then, for the next three days, she must not sleep for more than fifteen minutes or so at a time. With all her superficial injuries, this will not be pleasant for her. I’m wary of her having pain relief with the threat of brain injury.”

Clearing his throat, Jon asks, “And if she makes it past the three days?”

“I’d still be wary of anything stronger than willow bark, but she’ll be able to safely sleep. The bruising and sprains will take time to heal. Like Miss Daisy, if she can make it through the worst, I’ll call her extremely lucky.” Looking over at Pod, he says, “If you hadn’t, lad, you and her would both be dead, but it was a risk. The drop could have easily killed her, broke bones, or caused bleeding no one could stop.”

Kneeling down, Lady Brienne wraps her arms around Pod and whispers to him.

…

Mayor Baratheon stares dully at the sheets. “Yes. These look to be the ones from my wife’s room at our lake house.”

“Sir,” Mormont says, “perhaps, you should call a solicitor.”

“No. I am innocent. If my wife is a murderess, she will face justice all on her own.”

Jon manages not to protest.

Ros and baby Barra and the other women go through his mind. He wants the person who harmed them all to see justice, but- for a man to be so cold towards his wife, the mother of his child- If any of Jon’s family committed such a horrible crime, he’d feel compelled to bring them in, but he’d also do whatever he reasonably could to help them. He’d pray they wouldn’t face the noose, and if there was a chance they could be treated in a decent asylum rather than thrown in prison, he’d fight to get this for them.

There’s a knock on the interrogation room door, and Pyp sticks his head in. “Miss Gilly is awake.”

…

Jon has just finished leaving a message for Sam when he turns to find Sister Unella has appeared. “Will Gilly live?”

“Yes,” he answers.

Turning, she waves a young sister carrying a baby over. The baby looks to be around six months and is wearing a simple, homespun dress of black cloth and matching little socks. Sister Unella cups its cheek. “God gave your mother great strength, child.”

Looking back at Jon, she asks, “When can we see her?”

“Sorry, but who are these two?”

“This is Sister Eglantine.” Taking the baby, she says, “And this is Gilly’s child. Samson. Named in the hope he would be strong and free to walk in the sunshine. We thought it best to try to keep what’s been going on from him. Now that she is safe, however, and you will soon have the prostitute slayer in custody, he needs to see his mother as soon as possible.”

Jon lets the baby play with his fingers. “If you’ll follow me, Sisters.”

…

Bringing a cup to Gilly’s lips, Qyburn urges, “That’s it. I know boiled water doesn’t have a pleasant taste, but it’s what’s best right now. Once you can keep it down, you can move onto weak tea, and then, proper food. I want to try to ensure no residue of the drugs is hiding in your system, ready to cause a violent reaction.”

Wrapping her hands around the cup, Gilly obediently takes small sips.

“There’s a chance you might develop a cold. I hope not. That certainly won’t help the pain. All in all, however, you’ve come out ahead.”

The door opens, and Jon comes in. “Miss Gilly, are you up for visitors?”

“Constable Tarly?”

“He’ll be here soon,” he answers. Standing aside, he opens the door, and Sisters Unella and Eglantine come.

Gilly’s eyes immediately lock onto Samson and fill with tears. Seeing her, the baby coos and reaches over.

“Gentle, little lamb,” Eglantine murmurs. Setting him down beside Gilly on the gurney, she kneels down onto the floor with her arm supporting and guarding him.

Jon gets Qyburn’s chair, Gilly traces her son’s face and, through the laughing tears, she says, “I was afraid I’d never see you again. I was so afraid. I’ve missed you.” She crosses herself.

Sister Unella pulls Jon and Qyburn outside.

…

Sighing, Jon rubs his eyes. “I suppose this makes sense, her living in a Maggie house, but I never would have thought- she’s so young.”

“The world has been cruel to Gilly,” Sister Unella replies. “What will we need to do for her, doctor?”

“Not to be indelicate, but is she nursing the child?”

“She was. He’s recently been fully weaned.”

Qyburn begins giving a list of instructions. Once he leaves, Jon gives a bitter laugh. “You aren’t going to let her keep her baby.”

Giving him a sharp look, Sister Unella replies, “Personally, I very much wish she would. She wouldn’t be the first. Several of the women living with us are raising their children. However, at her request, adoption plans have been made. That’s why we’ve been lenient about her missing curfew and skipping out on her shifts lately. It’s rather a painful thing, even when you know your child is going to a good, Christian family.”

“You- That’s a surprising attitude, Sister.”

“Babies are often a natural consequence of men and women lying together, Detective, but no baby is ever a reward or punishment. There are some men and women who should never be parents, and it’s best they give their child to someone who is capable of and willing to be one. Some women, married or not, and whatever their past indiscretions, could be proper mothers if given the chance. We aim to extend that chance to those willing to take it. Gilly, however, wants her boy to have a name, an education, toys, a chance to one day give his own children all of that. I wish she would keep Samson, but none of us have any right to stop her from giving him to a loving family.”

Seeing Sam, Jon says, “Excuse me, Sister.”

…

“I’ve only just know realised I’m not in my uniform,” Sam frets. “I should- do you reckon I should go back and change, Jon?”

Biting back a grin, Jon wraps an arm around him. “It’s fine. You’re not going back on duty right now, Sam. C’mon. Miss Gilly should be happy enough to see you, uniform or not.”

“I know I’ll be happy to see her,” Sam says with quiet sincerity.

…

They get to the morgue, and Sam immediately says, “Oh, you have a baby!”

Giving a weak smile, Gilly nods. “His name is Sam, too. Samson.”

“Could- could I hold him?”

Nodding, Gilly asks Sister Eglantine, “Could you and Detective Snow leave us for a few minutes?”

 Getting the baby settled in Sam’s arms, Sister Eglantine comes over to Jon.

“Go to Sister Unella. I’ll stand guard outside,” he says.

“He has warm, clever eyes, just like you,” Sam says.

Gilly frowns. “My eyes are brown, and his are blue.”

“Well, cleverness and warmth aren’t restricted to certain colours,” Sam responds.

Jon and Sister Eglantine leave.

…

In Mormont's office, Brienne says, “Pod and I will be with my father at the hotel. Call when you find Mrs Baratheon or if Miss Daisy needs more blood. I’ve called Lord Renly, Mayor Baratheon’s brother. He’s never much cared for either of his sisters-in-law, but if necessary, he will find a suitable lawyer for Mrs Baratheon. Much as I want this slayer of women caught, I can’t help but hope it’s not her.”

“Thank you, my lady. And thank you for being so reasonable and patient about all of this.”

Before she can respond, Pod runs in and puts his hand on her sheathed sword. “S-she’s here, my lady.”

They leave Mormont’s office to see Selyse Baratheon being escorted in.


	9. Chapter 9

Digging a pen out of his pocket, Sam balances it between his shoulder and neck and makes a semi-circle around the baby with his arm.

Immediately, baby Samson begins trying to grab at the pen and climb up Sam to get it.

“I’m sorry,” Sam quietly says.

Gilly gives him a puzzled look. “It was no one’s fault but Mrs Baratheon’s that she took me. Even if Dr Qyburn had gotten a bobby to guard Miss Daisy and the little one who saved me, she might’ve drugged him like she did me or worse.”

“She should have been a suspect as soon as we found here in Miss Sansa’s scrapbooks, but-”

Carefully sitting up, Gilly touches Sam’s free hand. “I’m Catholic. You’re not. If either of us should have seen she could’ve still done nursing, it’s me. I remember when I first came here, you took me to the canteen, because, you knew I probably wouldn’t feel safe alone down in the basement with a man. You didn’t believe me, but you still listened. And when it turned out, I was right, you let me help. No one ever listened before you.”

“That doesn’t-”

“Stop,” she orders. “Police are people, too. Some of them might think they’re better than everyone else, but even the good ones, sometimes, luck is against them or they make mistakes. It wasn’t your fault, Constable Tarly, and I don’t blame you, so, you shouldn’t blame yourself, either.”

He sighs. “Thank you.”

She nods.

Getting the pen down and handing it to the baby, he keeps a careful eye on little Samson. “Do you mind- about his father?”

“He’s always just been mine,” she says. “But not for much longer. Sister Unella found a nice man and his wife who can’t have babies. He’s a butcher with his own shop. I’ve never liked going to butcher shops, but baby Sam will never be hungry. He’ll go to school and be sure to have a job.” Taking a small breath, she adds, “Won’t have to be ashamed of his mother or face being a bastard.”

For a long moment, there’s silence.

“He’s lucky he’s had you for his mum for as long as he has. And I hope someday, if he learns about you, he’s able to realise what a remarkable woman you are." Shaking his head when she starts to respond, he says, “Gilly, you helped catch a serial killer. Most people would have given up after the first few times no one listened. I know I would have probably given up the first time I was turned away. But you went all over the city and kept coming back. Then, you insisted on continuing to help. Not knowing how to read didn’t stop you from being smart enough to figure out what none of us could, and nothing- you’re very brave.”

Giving him a small smile, she brings her hand to Samson.

Losing interest in the pen, Samson reaches for her.

Sam carefully gets the baby settled next to Gilly’s head.

There’s a knock on the door, and Jon comes in. “Sam, we’ve got Mrs Baratheon in custody. The Sisters will be here in a minute. Go find Lady Tarth and her servant, and I’ll sit with Miss Gilly.”

Nodding, Sam stands and gently strokes the baby’s hair before telling Gilly, “Good luck.”

She gives him a small smile. “You, too. Thank you, Constable Tarly.”

Once he’s gone, Jon sits down. “It’s none of my business, but do you mind me asking what Father Aemon thinks of you giving your baby up?”

“He doesn’t know,” she answers. “I’ve never told him about Samson.”

“Before the adoption, I hope you’ll talk to him, Miss Gilly. I think it would be good for you and the baby both if you did.”

The Sisters enter.

…

In the interrogation room, Jon sits down next to Mormont. “Miss Gilly and Podrick Payne are both gone, sir, and Constable Duff is in the morgue with Miss Daisy and Qyburn.”

“Good,” Mormont says. “Now, Mrs Baratheon, a lawyer is coming for you. You don’t have to talk to us, but you are under arrest. Your husband-” He pauses.

“It’s okay, Inspector,” Selyse says. “My husband is an apostate. Or perhaps, that isn’t the right term for him, for sadly, I fear he never in his life has truly believed. Thankfully, he will never abandon our daughter. She’s a miserable, disfigured creature. He blames the fact she wasn’t vaccinated as a baby. Perhaps, he even blames me for that. But I know the truth.”

Tiredly, Mormont asks, “What is the truth, my lady?”

“If there were no women selling their bodies, there would be much less sin and crime in this world. They could be nuns or simple servants of the church, but instead, they commit fornication, help men commit adultery, spread disease, produce illegitimate babies, and have the nerve to say that doing so is the only way to survive. My husband has always been utterly loyal to our marital bed, but I know good women who haven’t been as blessed in their marriage as I have been. Our daughter didn’t need painful shots full of questionable materials. She deserved to grow up in a world where disease wasn’t constantly being spread by filthy women.”

“Have you always felt this way, Mrs Baratheon? Or is it a recent feeling?”

“I’ve always felt this way. It’s only recently that I came to the realisation drastic measures needed to be taken and found the strength to do so.”

“You took Miss Mhaegen’s womb. Why?”

She shrugs. “Since my nursing duties, I’ve always been interested in the mysteries of women’s organs. My daughter is my only baby. I have carried sons for my husband, but it has pleased God to take them all before they could ever draw breath.”

“Did- did you send the package to us?”

“No,” she answers. “I’ve always tried to hire godly servants. If one of them found it, they, not understanding the righteous of my mission, might have been compelled to send it.”

Rubbing his head, Mormont glances over at Jon. “Why don’t you start telling us everything about the murders, Mrs Baratheon?”

…

Jon listens and, finally, can’t take it anymore.

“Look, as far as I’m concerned, if it were just Trant, I could give a damn about your reasons and wouldn’t you judge for it-”

“Snow!”

“But how can you- Ros heard a whistle blowing in the middle of the night, and instead of staying inside where it was safe and warm, she went out with just a poker. She found a lost, defenceless woman, or from her eyes, that was the situation, and she brought you inside. She was going to let you sleep in her bed.” He can’t keep his voice from cracking, “She built a fire for you. She gave you tea. She was a kind woman. When you killed her friend, she cried for days, and she did everything to make sure the innocent baby you deprived of her mother would have a good home. Whatever you think the evils of prostitution brings, are you going to sit here and deny the selfless compassion and kindness in all that? In her?”

She looks at him for a long moment.

“Detective Snow-” Mormont starts.

“You were intimate with her,” Mrs Baratheon states. “But it was more than that. Did I take away a woman you genuinely loved, Detective Snow? Did she return your feelings? It doesn’t seem she had any intentions to leave her trade and repent.”

He shakes his head. “I was never with Ros in such a way. I’m likely to only ever be with one woman in such a way, Mrs Baratheon. But yes, you did take away a woman I genuinely loved. Love. Ros was a close friend. I’ve known her since I was eighteen. Outside of my brothers and little sister, she is one of the first true friends I’ve ever had. If you had just- instead of blowing your whistle. Even if you couldn’t have defended yourself against Trant, I wish to God Ros had just stayed inside.”

Standing up, he says, “I’m sorry, Inspector Mormont. I’ll send someone else to help finish the interview.”

…

After calling his father to tell them Sansa can have her scrapbooks back, Jon goes to the lav for a bit, and after wiping his face and leaving, he hears, “Jon!”, and finds himself being attacked by a small arms wrapping around his leg.

Laughing, he kneels down. “Hello, little Rickon, what are you doing here? Did you fly here?”

Attacking him from behind, Arya clings to his neck. “Of course not. We took the horses." Letting go, she accuses, "You haven’t talked to us on the phone for days."

Pulling her around, he kisses her forehead. Picking Rickon up, he says, “I’m sorry. Why don’t we go down to the basement and you can tell me and Sam all about the hunting trip Father is taking you on? And Rickon, you can tell us all about the ghosts you’ve been talking to.”

“Mother has repeatedly explained ghosts aren’t real.”

Jon represses a sigh at Sansa’s prim, cold voice. He looks at Arya, and she gives him an apologetic look. “She wouldn’t let Bran come if she didn’t go with us.”

He looks around. “Wait, where is Bran?”

“Outside on Mountain Dew,” Rickon answers.

Putting Rickon in Arya’s arms, he lets go of her, stands, and demands of Sansa, “You left him outside?”

“He’s too big to carry."

“Right. Well, why don’t you go to the canteen, Miss Sansa? I think we still have some lemon cakes. Arya, take Rickon down to Sam, yeah?”

Arya nods. “Okay. Can I go with you to see Ygritte, later?”

“Miss Giantsbane,” Sansa corrects.

Letting out a sound of disgust, Arya snaps, “She’s not a priss-pot like you. She understands-”

“Basement, now, and if you do anything to your sister’s scrapbooks, there will be no hunting or going to tourneys for a long time,” Jon orders.

Grumbling, Arya stalks towards the basement, and giving a polite curtsey, Sansa heads to the canteen.

Outside, Jon guickly finds Mountain Dew, a miniature horse Tyrion Lannister sent for Bran’s latest birthday. Very few animals owned by the Starks escape being named by Rickon, and this horse is not one of the exceptions.

“Hey, Bran,” he greets.

Giving him a rueful smile, Bran nods. “We couldn’t bring my chair along.”

“That’s okay,” he says. Undoing the straps, he gets Bran secured in his arms and groans at the weight. “Or maybe not. Now, look, you need to stop. At the rate you’re growing, you’re going to be taller than me and Robb and maybe even Father sitting down and have more muscles, too. That just doesn’t strike me as fair.”

Bran tugs his hair.

“I’m sorry I haven’t talked to you and the others lately.”

“That’s alright. I don’t like this killer going around and hurting women at night.”

“Well, don’t worry. We caught the killer today. But we’ll talk more about that later. Anything new in your life?”

“I’m going on the hunt with Father, Robb, and Arya, and I’ve gotten better at using that special bow Lord Tyrion sent. But I’ll probably never be as good as Theon and Miss Giantsbane.”

“Good,” Jon says. “To both. You know, Mr Giantsbane once almost killed me with a bow and arrow. For all Ygritte carries around her crossbow, if it had been her aiming with the bow and arrow, I’d be dead now. If you get better than her with your crossbow, she’ll insist on learning how to use it, and we both can guess who she’ll decide will make a good human target, eh?”

“Most days, she loves you,” Bran quips. 

“Most days, she has too much fun winding me up." Getting to the basement door, he shifts Bran’s weight and opens it.

…

When it begins to get dark, Sam escorts the three to the canteen, and Jon goes to the front desk. “Hey, Pyp. Where’s Mrs Baratheon?”

“The inspector had her put in one of the doored cells like he did that Tarth woman and her servant. I’m not sure which one.”

“I’ll go check,” Jon says. “If my brothers, sister, and Miss Sansa get here before I get back, tell them to just wait.”

“Will do,” Pyp agrees.

…

Jon has just found the cell when Sansa and the others walk around the corner, and he realises they probably didn’t go by the front desk.

“I need the privy,” Sansa says.

Many rich families still refuse to have a water toilet installed, but his father isn’t unique for having one. Instead, he’s considered mighty eccentric for having two. Jon was a little younger than Rickon when the first one was installed, and a few years later, a bigger one was installed near the tub, and a room was built around them both. A mirror and small cabinet for towels was added, and his father absolutely forbid any of the boys to go near inside it. He bought a smaller tub and put it near the first toilet and insisted the boys and men use them.

After Bran had his accident, it was decided he’d bath in the bigger tub, and the someone who helps him get from his chair to into it is usually their father or Robb, but otherwise, the rule is still firmly enforced.

While the station lav does have some water toilets in addition to the standard chamber pots and is allowed to anyone inside the station who needs to make use of it, it’s mostly used by men and often doesn’t special paper for people to clean themselves with afterwards.

“Alright,” he says. “We’ll go get some paper, and then, I’ll see if anyone is inside.”

“You know how men and women are different,” Arya grumbles. “You shouldn’t make Jon guard the door just so you can-”

“Hey,” Jon sharply interrupts. “None of that. It’s the right thing to guard the door when a girl or women needs to do her business. Just because they might have brothers or be close to other men in their family, that’s very different from strange men. Come on, now, after your sister’s done, we can-”

He hears a sound from inside the cell, digs his key out, starts to open, and before it's fully opened, he automatically slaps a hand over Sansa’s eyes, grabs Rickon and turns him around with his other arm, and forcibly half-carries, half-drags Sansa away. “Mrs Baratheon needs help!”

…

Near the canteen, he lets go of both Rickon and Sansa. Kneeling down and taking in her scared, confused eyes, he gently asks, “Are you alright? Did I hurt either of you?”

She shakes her head. “I’m fine. You didn’t.”

Shrugging, Rickon looks at him with simple curiosity.

“I’m sorry,” he continues. “Mrs Baratheon hurt herself. It wasn’t a sight for a young lady to be exposed to, and I was afraid it might give Rickon nightmares.”

“The ghosts in the crypts take care of me,” Rickon says.

Sansa looks around. “Thank you, Detective Snow. What about Arya?”

He sighs. Whether Mrs Baratheon is dead or alive, Arya is likely to be fascinated and talk about what she saw, and this will discomfort everyone else, make his father angry with him, and give his stepmother even more reason to despise him and try to limit his contact with the children, but he knows Arya isn’t going to be having any bad dreams or find herself having to live with sadness.

“Detective Snow,” Mormont comes over, “put your siblings in my office and come to the morgue.”

“Um, excuse me,” Sansa quietly says, “but I still need to use the privy.”

“There’s a chamber pot in my office, Miss Sansa. Draw the curtains and have one or more of your family stand outside. Detective, get some paper for her, and then, come to the morgue.”

…

Miss Daisy, Jon sees, is finally in a proper nightdress rather than the makeshift towel dress she’d had earlier and is soundly sleeping on one of the cots.

He keeps his eyes firmly on her rather than Mrs Baratheon.

“I’ll move her to a containment drawer,” Qyburn says. “It was clearly suicide, Inspector, but as usual, if you and the family wish to list it as something else, I won’t contest it.”

Jon’s stomach rolls. He remembers the words he said to her, and then, instead of helping-

“I don’t know,” Mormont mutters. “I’ll talk to Mayor Baratheon. We’ll also have to discuss what to tell the public.”

Qyburn comes over. “She was deranged, Detective. Whatever you’re thinking could have been done, with respect, you’re wrong. People like her don’t live long after being exposed. Even if she’d been strapped to a bed and fed at the appropriate times, she’d’ve soon willed herself death.”

“I heard her- and I left instead of-” He shudders.

“Ah,” Qyburn says. “Yes, I heard about you getting your half-sister and brother away as quickly as possible. Well, I imagine you don’t want to hear a detailed explanation, but look at me, please.”

Jon does.

“I promise you, she was dead before you heard the body hitting the floor. If you’d tried to revive her, all you would have done was possibly caused mental trauma in two young children.”

Jon is still conflicted and has the natural sadness at another person being dead, but Qyburn’s words dissipate much of the heavy weight settled in his chest and gut. “Thank you.”

“It’s simply the truth.”

“Get your family settled, and then, go home, Snow. Don’t come back for a few days,” Mormont orders.

…

At Tarth, in a nightdress, Brienne sits and shakes her long, white-blonde hair out.

Clad in an overly-large shirt, Pod dips her combs into the warm, soapy water and begins combing. Next, he brushes her hair with her thick, heavy brush for about ten minutes.

“Thank you, Pod. Hopefully, we’ll never have to see any Lannister except, perhaps, Lord Tyrion ever again.”

He gives a slight nod.

After she’s gotten into bed and covered up, he tends to the fire, blows out the candles, crawls onto the foot of the bed, and curls up underneath his own blanket.

In the warm room with the sound of the lake lapping outside, Lady Brienne of Tarth and Podrick Payne soundly sleep.

…

After the four children are safely at his father’s house, Jon has a light supper, crawls into bed, and is half-waken a few hours later by the feel and scent of Ygritte slipping into bed. “Thought you’d be at the post office,” he murmurs.

“You know nothing, Jon Snow." She chastely kisses his mouth. “The courts agreed to hear our case this morning. Careful not to roll onto my ankle.”

Sleepily, he rearranges them so he’s holding her around her non-bruised and scratched areas. She jerks slightly, and her soft, evening breathing fills the room.

He quickly follows her into sleep.

…

Epilogue

In his study, Tywin Lannister sternly looks up from his desk and rearranges his papers. “Trouble with your whore already?”

“My relationship with Shae is going well, thank you, but even if she and I were having problems, I assure you, I wouldn’t come here. The reason I am here is to ask: Why did Cersei do this?”

“Do what?”

“You trying to pretend you don’t take my meaning is beyond both of us, Father,” Tyrion declares. “Cersei had gotten awfully close to her husband’s sister-in-law as of late. Suddenly, one of the many women to bear Robert’s bastards is dead. Along with five other women and one man, but I doubt that was directly Cersei’s doing. More of an unintended escalation of her manipulation. What made Miss Mhaegen so- I’m not even sure what word it is I’m looking for.”

Tywin scoffs. “If you believe such a vile, ridiculous thing of your sister, why don’t you ask her directly?”

Groaning, Tyrion shakes his head. “Father. I’d think by now I’ve proven I’d never risk Jaime’s children. Not to mention, I wouldn’t have needed a confession from any of you to present the police with enough evidence to arrest Mrs Baratheon long ago. I let four women and one man die to protect us all. One of them,” he sadly adds, "was a dear friend."

“Before the Honourable Judge Lord Stark resigned his judgeship, he helped pass a new law,” Tywin quietly says. “It was a case brought on by the damned suffragettes. If a bastard under the age of twelve can be proven to be the product of a highborn, the man must support the woman and bastard until the bastard is seventeen.”

Tyrion raises an eyebrow. “Which Robert was already doing in little Barra’s case."

“If you’d let me finish,” Tywin sharply retorts. “Robert was talking about divorce, something also made much easier of late thanks to those suffragettes. He likely wouldn’t have married that foolish whore, but she was so besotted, if he asked her to testify that he had committed adultery with her and produced a child- he would have happily had himself legally decreed an adulterer if it meant ending his marriage to your sister.”

“I can’t imagine what would drive him to such a thing,” Tyrion sarcastically replies.

“I’m sure you can happily imagine what such a situation would do to your sister.”

“Since we’re talking so causally of cold-blooded murder, why didn’t she just have dear Robert discreetly-”

“As long as Robert lives, your brother, sister, niece, and nephews are all safe from scrutiny. As neglectful and uninterested in them as he is and despite his ill-treatment of Cersei, he isn’t going to allow gossip about him being cuckholded abound, never mind seriously give such thoughts any heed.”

“True,” Tyrion agrees. “With Qyburn being in your pocket, I’m surprised Miss Daisy is still alive.”

“That’s unfortunate, but there’s nothing we can do about it. She never knew anything, her would-be killer was an insane, now dead woman, and so, she’s no threat.”

“Did he kill Selyse, or was it truly suicide?”

Tywin shrugs. “I neither know nor care.”

Sighing, Tyrion nods. “Good night, Father.” He walks to the door.

“Tyrion.”

He stops.

“Take heed: As much as I resent and despise having to claim you as mine, you are. I know about the photographs that Tarth woman has hidden away. I know what she forced Jaime to do. If it weren’t for the fact Podrick Payne once saved your life, she and he would both already be dead. However, your life is only worth so much. Keep that in mind. I won’t keep you from your whore any longer. Goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: Thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed this fic. I'm hoping to soon post the first chapter of a new fic in this verse.


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